


Diptych

by samanthahirr



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician), American Idol RPF, Kris Allen (Musician)
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - Criminals, Community: kradambigbang, Danger, Drunk Sex, Fashion & Couture, Gun Violence, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Interrogation, Kidnapping, Law Enforcement, M/M, Public Sex, Romance, Stalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-23
Updated: 2011-07-23
Packaged: 2017-10-21 16:15:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 42,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/227129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samanthahirr/pseuds/samanthahirr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adam Lambert may not have stolen the Matheron Diptych, but he's about to sell it on the black market for a nice profit. He's not going to let an FBI investigation get in his way...if he can just shake the agent who's shadowing his every move.</p><p>Special Agent Kris Allen has been watching Adam for weeks. But is Kris planning to arrest the glamorous art fence and retrieve the diptych? Or does he want more from Adam than just stolen merchandise?</p><p>When Kris saves Adam’s life, the line blurs between Fed and criminal. But while Kris melts at Adam's touch, someone far more dangerous is searching for the diptych….</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Round 2 of the [Kradam Big Bang](http://kradambigbang.livejournal.com) challenge. All credit for the completion of this story goes to [cinaea](http://cinaea.livejournal.com), for her ceaseless encouragement, nagging, and amazing beta work. Featuring [_jaw-dropping art_](http://katekat1010.livejournal.com/336827.html) by the incomparable [katekat1010](http://katekat1010.livejournal.com). I couldn't have asked for more perfect art for this story!

  


  


His nametag read "Sawyer," but he looked more like a "Sweetie," or "Cutie." Adam licked his lips as he waited for his drink, standing right across the counter from the espresso machine to let Sawyer look his fill.

The barista was fixated on his mouth, unable to look away from the M.A.C. tinted lipglass. Adam bit his lip with a perfectly-whitened tooth and cocked a manicured eyebrow. Sawyer blushed to be caught staring and knocked over the paper cup, then had to fumble it upright in order to pour the steamed milk. Adam smiled broadly, luxuriating in the option to take Sawyer for a ride. He was a little young, a little thin, a little too pretentious-NYU-film-student for Adam's discriminating tastes, but there was something about the way baristas moved their wrists, twisting and pumping as they wiped down the steam wand. He could watch Sawyer work that machine all day, and then take him home and fuck him all night.

The espresso machine hissed out the third and fourth shots, and Sawyer stirred them all into the large cup, bending down to carefully sculpt the foam. Adam looked away to hide his amused snort at the thought that if Sawyer were truly creative, he'd find a way to write his phone number in it. As it was, Sawyer wasn't enough to tempt him. …Unless his quadruple caramel non-fat macchiato turned out to be absolutely spectacular today. Adam smiled at his own generosity and licked his lips again, almost making Sawyer trip as he leaned across the bar and handed over the steaming cup.

"Here you go," Sawyer mumbled. "Is there anything else I can get you? Anything at all?" The flush was high on his cheekbones, his light green eyes popping against his red complexion, and Adam gave him a long, considering look.

"I'll let you know," he purred and took the coffee, reveling in another effortless conquest. He turned with his drink, taking his time to blow across the surface as he walked slowly to the door. The barista would still be watching his ass in the Rock & Republic jeans, wondering if Adam would turn around at the door.

And he just might, because the coffee smelled heavenly, just a hint of ground nutmeg rising with the steam, and Adam lowered his lips slowly for the sip that would decide Sawyer's fate.

Only to have the drink spilled down his shirt by the distracted guy rushing through the door, eyes on his cell phone.

Adam dropped the half-empty cup, biting back the shout of 'Fuck God Damn' because he was too high class to make that kind of scene. Instead, he shook his dripping fingers dry-ish and took stock of the ruined white Raf Simons wrap-top he'd picked out specifically for today's appointments.

"Oh crap, I'm so sorry," the asshole blurted too-loudly, apparently willing to make a scene all on his own.

Adam lifted his gaze to glare, but paused before cutting the guy down to size, because he was _already_ the perfect size. Adorable, really; short and sturdy, strong shoulders and narrow waist, stubble and bronzed skin and messy hair begging to be laid out on Egyptian cotton sheets and tousled even further. Adam smiled at the image and cocked his head. "You should watch where you're going," he suggested mildly.

"I should, I'm so sorry. Let me get you something…." The guy ducked around him to raid the bar for a wad of napkins, reappearing in front of Adam and pawing at his cashmere sweater with thin, recycled paper, pushing the hot, soaked fabric against his skin.

"It's okay, I'll get it," Adam said, catching the guy's wrists and squeezing to get his attention. Deep chocolate eyes looked up at him and widened, followed by a gratifying flutter of eyelashes down to his lips and back. Adam squeezed again and slid his fingers higher to take the napkins for himself. "It was an accident."

"Yeah," the guy said, not looking away from Adam's face. He let go of the napkins and stood right in front of Adam as the taller man carefully lifted the shirt up and away from his stomach and dabbed. The klutz's eyes drifted lower, fascinated by the process—or maybe by the inches of skin Adam revealed.

The moment lasted a ridiculous, delightful thirty seconds, with the guy less than two feet away, blatantly staring at him. When the doors opened and a couple of women marched in, Adam took hold of the man's elbow, pulled him out of the way, and pressed the wet napkins into his hand.

"Is there anything I can do to make it up to you? Um, dry cleaning, or…."

His 'anything' wasn't as blatant at Sawyer's, but it was definitely on the table. "How about buying me another coffee?"

"Yeah, sure, I will," he nodded enthusiastically and headed for the register.

Adam took a seat at one of the small tables by the windows, making sure his best angles were properly lit. He watched the cute guy approach the cashier girl, only to be intercepted by Sawyer waving him over and handing him a replacement cup before he'd even ordered anything, or even thought to ask what Adam was drinking. Sawyer shot Adam a hopeful 'see what I did for you?' look, and Adam rolled his eyes and checked out the clumsy guy's ass. Khakis—probably Dockers or something equally unimaginative—but they fit pretty well from where Adam sat.

Sawyer mumbled something snippy, and Adam looked up, caught the jealous glare he was giving the guy. Clearly, he knew he'd just missed his chance with Adam.

Adam ignored the barista and smiled at the man bringing him his caffeine-fix. "Thanks," he said, fingers brushing over shaking hands as he took the cup. "I'm Adam." He let the invitation float there, a delicate thing.

"Um. Hi. I'm Kris."

Adam nodded and smiled when Kris's hand drifted to the back of the other chair. Kris took the hint and sat down, looking from the ruined shirt to Adam's face.

"I'm really _so_ sorry. I wasn't paying attention, wasn't thinking—"

"S'okay, I've got time to change." Adam popped the lid off his coffee, leaned forward and licked at the foam heart on top, savoring the way Kris's eyes darkened and his cheeks took on a pink hue. He was perfect; eyes straight out of a Bernini self-portrait, and the shoulders of a _David_.

"Yeah," Kris said, sounding a little strangled. "I'll pay for the dry cleaning…."

"Don't worry about it," Adam said, allowing it to sound more magnanimous than the truth—that no amount of dry-cleaning in the world would save it now.

"It's a nice sweater," Kris said.

"Thank you. I'm glad you like it."

"It's unusual. It suits you."

"That it does," Adam smiled, enjoying Kris's awkward attempt at flirting. He took that first sip and closed his eyes to enjoy it. Too bad for Sawyer; even the perfect cup didn't stand a chance when compared to the shyly eager young man across from him. "I haven't seen you in here before. New to the neighborhood?" he asked after a long moment of suspense.

"Um. Yeah," Kris said, fidgeting with a used straw someone had left on the table. "Only been here a few weeks."

"Hmm. Living or working?"

"Working."

Adam considered Kris's stubble and tan skin, cheap khakis, scuffed brown dress shoes, and plain button-down shirt, a cell phone and walkie-talkie clipped to his brown belt. "Construction?" he guessed. He could see that: Kris running one of the sites in the area, letting that sculpted upper-body go to waste behind a manager's desk.

Kris flushed brighter and looked out the window.

"I hope I'm not making you uncomfortable," Adam lied.

"No, it's fine. Um. So what do _you_ do?"

"I'm in art."

"Living or working?" Kris asked, trying for suave and playful. He didn't quite succeed, but Adam acknowledged the effort.

"Both," he said and smiled at Kris's confusion. "Welcome to the neighborhood, Kris."

"Thanks, Adam." He said his name with something that sounded like awe, and Adam wasn't the kind of man to let so fortuitous a meeting pass him by.

"Do you have somewhere you need to be in the next few hours?"

"What? Um."

Adam leaned back, stretched a long leg out to the side, made sure Kris spotted it and followed it all the way up. "Someone should roll out the welcome wagon for you. I could show you around the area, take you to all the best spots. My appointments can wait. Can yours?"

Kris was staring at him with his mouth open. Adam imagined he could see him salivating. "You would do that?"

He nodded slowly. "The question, Kris, is would _you_?"

"I…."

Adam lifted his cup again and blew over the surface, lips pursed, eyes half-lidded.

Kris gulped. "I would, I'd love to."

Jackpot.

"But I'm working, I have to work, I can't leave." He gestured helplessly at the walkie-talkie on his belt. "If they call…. I shouldn't have come here at all. I'm supposed to be watching—" he cut himself off guiltily.

"Would you get in trouble if I whisked you away?" Adam asked, batting his eyelashes innocently.

"I'd get fired," Kris admitted, starting to look downright anxious even as he stayed firmly planted at Adam's table. "I should go."

Kris was persuadable, that much was obvious, but Adam reluctantly decided to let this one go. He really didn't have time for a quickie, unless it was going to be here in the Café La Thé bathroom. And as a rule, Adam _never_ fucked in public restrooms. "I wouldn't want that on my conscience," he agreed. Kris blinked at him, surprised. Adam smiled indulgently. "Far be it from me to tempt anyone to financial ruin."

"I'm. Thank you," Kris said uncertainly, his eyes falling hungrily to Adam's lips as he stood up. "I'm sorry again about running into you. I hope your sweater's okay."

Adam waved his concern off. "It was my pleasure. I'll see you around, Kris."

Kris looked disappointed—crushed, if Adam wanted to flatter himself. Adam half expected him to pull out a business card or offer his number, but Kris backed away from the table, almost slipped on the spill he'd left on the floor, and practically ran out the door. He vanished into the sidewalk bustle of 5th Avenue. Adam smiled when he realized Kris had been so flustered he'd left without getting any coffee for himself.

Sawyer dragged a mop and bucket out from behind the bar and got to work cleaning up Adam's first macchiato. He really threw himself into it, bending at the waist to thrust and sweep the mop across the floor. Adam sipped his coffee and enjoyed the show.

  


  
"Adam, I need your gold Gucci belt," Brad yelled as soon as Adam walked through the door to his condo. "And didn't you just leave?"

Adam set his briefcase and coffee down and locked the front door behind him, headed to his bedroom and found Brad kneeling in a foot-high mound of clothes in Adam's walk-in closet. He sighed. "You should've just texted. It's in the second drawer on the right."

"Thank god." Brad heaved himself up and stepped gingerly over the clothes, almost doing a split to reach the wardrobe in the back.

Adam turned away from the fabulousness of Brad's ass in tight, pin-striped pants. He stripped off the morning's casualty and tossed it in the trash can.

"What're you doing back so soon?"

"I had a coffee spill," Adam said, digging through his racks for a new sweater. The afternoon still called for cashmere, but he was no longer feeling winter white.

"You, Mr. Grace-Incarnate?"

"Mm, there was a certain gorgeous someone involved."

"Oo, anyone I know?" Adam shook his head. "You're gonna be mysterious about this one, aren't you? I know that smile…."

Adam pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek and stayed quiet.

"Fine, leave me in suspense. But tell me what you think." Brad managed to stand upright and held Adam's gold-plated, skull-studded belt against his waist.

"Seriously?" he asked with a disapproving frown.

Brad rolled his eyes. " _I_ know this is a disaster, but Justin's in the middle of a punk phase. Trust me, he'll _love_ this."

"For day? Is he really that hopeless?"

"His favorite show is _Jersey Shore_ ," Brad said with an amused head shake.

"Oh God, I'm so sorry. It isn't too late to switch marks, is it?"

"He's not so bad. Hung like a stallion, so there's that. And the payoff will totally be worth a few sartorial sins."

"Alright then." Adam firmly ignored the masochistic impulse to ask his ex-lover for a comparison with well-hung Justin. He pulled out a Marc Jacobs sweater, rust colored with bold brown striping on the sleeves.

"And you pick out the troubadour shirt," Brad groaned, threading the belt around his waist.

"Fuck off," Adam said. "I'm feeling Baroque today."

"I thought you were feeling Early American. That's what Sotheby's is showing tonight, isn't it?"

Adam closed his eyes and pictured Kris again, pretty as a portrait. For the first time in a long time, Adam felt the urge to procure some art for himself. "You've should've seen his eyes, Brad. Absolutely gorgeous."

"Who, your coffee-spill someone? Are you dressing for a date, or business?"

Adam shook his head to clear the image and focused. He put the sweater down. "Business. Definitely."

"Good. Cause Mr. Hamilton's bank account is sorely lacking another Betsy Ross sewing machine or whatever."

"We'll see. Go have fun on your date. Try not to let _Page Six_ catch you wearing that belt with those shoes."

"Oh, screw you, doll. Kisses." Brad grabbed Adam's favorite Hermès scarf and flounced out of the closet, tossing it around his neck.

Adam stepped over Brad's mess and stripped off his shoes and jeans to clean the slate. Starting over with a blank canvas would be easier than attempting to fix a ruined masterpiece.

  


Adam's preview of the collection at Sotheby's yielded two promising landscapes from the Hudson River School, one of which caught Gordon Hamilton's fancy when Adam showed him the photographs later that day. Adam dutifully took Hamilton's blank check to the auction that night and secured the painting after a heated bidding war with his frequent opponent Lou. By midnight the painting and receipt were safely stowed in Hamilton's vault, and Adam was taking home his broker's percentage, making a mental note to find another temptation for Hamilton in mid-November. Four weeks was more than enough time for the bloom to fade off this latest love affair.

Lou came by for her cut at 7 a.m. the next morning, looking well-fucked from her blonde bed-head to her walk-of-shame alligator pumps.

"Not Pierre again," Adam frowned, pouring her some 100% Kona roast.

She sighed happily and sagged forward in her chair, stretching across his walnut kitchen table. "Remind me why I broke up with him?"

"Because he spent half your account on other women and then ran off with your assistant?"

"But he's _so good_ in bed," she moaned. "Seriously. If he'd just settle for being a kept man, I'd be the happiest woman alive."

"So last night was…."

"Just one of those things, you know? Ran into him in a bar, we couldn't keep our hands off each other…."

"And you've still got all your jewelry on you, right?"

"Yes," she said, swatting at him once he'd handed over her cup. "Be nice."

"I'm just saying, he ran into you. Some coincidence."

"Let me enjoy the afterglow. I can get suspicious tomorrow."

Adam shook his head and freshened up his own cup. "Want some fruit? Brad cut up a whole produce stand yesterday." She ignored the offer in favor of stealing his _New York Times_ , dragging it over the table to read the headlines. Adam helped himself to the platter of mixed fruit in the fridge, bringing the whole plate and two forks back to the table in case she changed her mind.

"Still no lead on the Verner Gallery job, huh?" she finally asked, folding the pages inelegantly to skim the article in question.

"Guess not," Adam shrugged, sucking a slice of papaya off his fork.

"Ugh. I know Northern Renaissance is big bucks, but I really can't stand it. Who would pay a million for _this_?" She turned the paper around and pointed at the photos showing the front and back of the stolen Matheron Diptych. The black and white newsprint didn't do the two portraits of the royal pair any favors, and the shot of the back panels was so grainy the crown and lily devices looked like amorphous smudges, while the fleurs-de-lis in the background were reduced to polka dots.

"Nobody I know," Adam said, "but somebody must've liked it. I haven't heard a peep about it in the last three weeks, so it's probably already in its new home."

"Hmm. The Feds are on it now," she reported, reading upside down.

"Big surprise."

"Will they be rounding up the usual suspects?"

"Nobody's rounded _me_ up yet," Adam grinned.

She looked up and winked. "Let's keep it that way. I like our Friday dates. All those horny old men with Swiss accounts and wooden paddles…."

"Be still, our beating hearts," Adam agreed and drank his coffee.

  


They say if you sit in one place long enough, you'll see the entire world pass by. Adam couldn't have disagreed more. On a Sunday afternoon, sitting and enjoying a plate of beignets at one of the outdoor tables in front of Nikko's on Madison, all anyone would have seen were the Manhattan socialites prowling the Upper East Side, ducking into Breguet and Bulgari with over-sized purses and exiting with miniature shopping bags. So Adam closed his eyes to better enjoy the taste of the espresso in his hand as the bells of St. James's echoed down the avenue.

Footsteps approached and faded away, high heels and sneakers, while he sipped slowly. Until one set stopped right next to him. Adam opened his eyes and looked up over the rims of his sunglasses. "Kris?"

Kris was standing next to his table and staring at him, openly covetous. "Adam."

"It's great to see you," Adam said softly, tempting him closer. "Would you like to sit down?"

"Thanks." He took the other chair eagerly.

Kris was wearing an identical pair of khakis and brown shoes to last time. They may very well have been the exact same clothes. Adam noted the walkie-talkie still on his belt, this time sticking out from under a maroon fleece pullover. The color was fabulous against Kris's skin, especially in the fall sunlight, and he decided personal beauty outweighed the tragedy of the recycled outfit. "I thought construction sites were closed on Sundays. The neighborhood committee will want to hear about this; they'll be after somebody's head."

"Are you on the committee, or just looking out for the good of the community?" Kris quipped, with none of the nervousness of two days ago.

Adam let his lips curl in pleasure. "I'm not on the committee, no. Your secret's safe with me. So what brings you to the neighborhood today? Shopping for another pair of shoes?"

Kris looked down at his well-worn browns. "Not on my salary." He peeked under the white tablecloth at Adam's brand new pair and whistled. "Alexander McQueen?"

He was truly a delight of contradictions. "Impoverished with an eye for designer labels; I love it."

Kris flushed at the compliment. Then, as though taken by an impulse, he reached out and stole Adam's last beignet off the plate and took a big bite before Adam could protest. Confectioner's sugar puffed out when he breathed, showering Kris's lips and wrist with a fine white dusting. Adam giggled at Kris's shocked, embarrassed expression, and Adam licked his own thumb, reached out and swiped it across Kris's bottom lip, and brought it back to lick the sugar off.

Kris stared, and then his tongue darted out to lick his lips clean, sucking longer on his bottom lip where Adam had touched him.

"Pastry thief," Adam smiled when Kris dropped the rest of the beignet back on the plate.

"No chance of hiding the crime, huh?" Kris asked, looking at his sleeve. "Powder residue."

"That'll teach you to steal another man's breakfast," he tsked. "Beignets are a lot more dangerous than they look."

"Dunkin Donuts have never turned on me."

"Dunkin Donuts are more buyer-friendly," he agreed, "but there's something about the finer tastes." He swiped his still-wet thumb across the plate and brought more sugar up to his tongue. Kris watched hungrily. "They're worth taking the extra time to fully enjoy."

"I see what you mean," Kris said, intent on his mouth.

"And how are you using your time today?" Adam asked. "Still on call?"

Kris followed his gaze down to the walkie-talkie on his belt and looked torn about how to answer.

"Playing hooky again," Adam concluded.

"I'm not where I'm supposed to be," Kris admitted, "but I can handle business just fine down here."

"Does that mean you can disappear for a few hours? 'Cause I'd still love to take you on a tour some time."

"I can't tell you how much I'd love to take you up on that offer," Kris said, his dark eyes even darker as he smiled, no trace of shyness left at all.

Delicious. "Maybe you'd like to take me on a tour of where you work?" Adam suggested, willing to put a little extra travel into this hookup, even at the risk to his plans for a lazy, decadent Sunday. There were other, more satisfying ways to indulge.

Kris's eyes flickered at the suggestion, considering. And then he said, "I'd love to, but there's no way that can happen."

"Too busy?"

"No, bored to tears, usually."

Adam tilted his head. Everything about Kris's body language said, _yes, let's go_ , but the words coming out of his mouth had an inconvenient steel to them. "Now you're just being difficult," Adam chided him. "Do you think you need to play hard to get?"

Kris shook his head quickly. "I'm not, I'm not. It's just that there are rules."

"Your rules?" Adam asked.

He nodded, and then shook his head again. "I've already broken most of them just talking to you."

Intrigued, Adam leaned closer and pulled his sunglasses down his nose. "Which ones? Specifically."

"I'm…I have to go."

Adam reached out and caught his wrist in a tight grip. "Not this time you don't. Don't you go running off just when you're getting very, very interesting."

Kris twisted his hand a little, but didn't pull away. "I have to," he repeated, staring at Adam's fingers on his skin.

"And what if I won't let you?" Adam asked, wincing inside at how out of character he was acting. This wasn't his practiced balance of smolder and aloofness; this was the opposite.

Kris smiled then, like he'd been waiting for this moment. "Adam," he said warmly.

Adam let go immediately and leaned back in his chair. He raised his eyebrows, trying to reclaim some of his hauteur.

"I can't," Kris said reasonably. "I'm a federal agent."

Adam's insides froze, but survival instinct made his lips twitch into an amused smile. "So?"

"I'm with the FBI," Kris explained.

Adam popped the collar of his Cucinelli jacket a little higher against the faint October breeze. "What does that have to do with spending a little time at my table?" he asked, flirting to cover his growing nervousness.

"I know who you are."

And with that, Kris put himself squarely on the other side of the line that separated the people Adam could seduce and the people he needed to keep the hell away from. "Then you have the advantage of me." Adam made himself sip his cup instead of throwing it at his enemy and running for the Connecticut safe house.

Kris nodded. "I know. We've been investigating you for weeks. We know you have the diptych from the Verner heist and you're looking for a buyer. I've been watching you from that apartment, up there." He craned his head back and pointed straight up, at one of the windows on Madison Avenue directly opposite Adam's 6th floor condo. "I'm supposed to be up there right now, but you were just sitting here, like you wanted company. And you're so much more interesting in person, so I figured I could keep an eye on you just as well talking to you…."

There was something off about his eyes. Adam could see it now, the incongruous earnestness as Kris explained how he'd been keeping Adam under covert surveillance…until he'd gotten bored and decided to come down and _flirt_ with him instead. Adam didn't know what to say.

"So I'd love to go with you," Kris went on, bringing it back to the explanation Adam had originally pressed him for. "I'd love to go back to your place and find out what the orchids on your desk smell like, and if those red sheets are as soft and smooth as they look, but I _can't_. If my partner comes back and I'm not there, I'll lose my job."

"We wouldn't want that," Adam whispered, blood running cold at the casual references to the interior of his home, his bedroom.

Kris shook his head with genuine regret. "I'm sorry."

"Me, too." He stood abruptly and dug into his pocket for his wallet. "Thanks for explaining it to me," he said with the politest smile he could muster, pinning a few bills beneath the plate to pay for his meal. "Have a nice day."

He turned on his heel and jaywalked across the street to his own building, ignoring the honking taxis. If the FBI wanted to arrest him for something, they could damn well start with crossing against the light.

  


There was a dirty secret to private gallery openings: no matter how rich everyone looked, no one actually had any money. At least, not the kind of money that meant something. The artist would dress in jeans, trying for I-Don't-Give-A-Fuck chic. The artist's friends would dress in all-black or neon colors, either ultra-hip or ultra-trendy. And everyone else—all the upper middle class yuppies hoping to create the illusion of wealth with a single, one-of-a-kind piece mounted above their fireplaces—they aired out their best silks and pearls.

But the real money, the kind an artist could actually live off of, kept to their mansions and charity balls. Those were the collectors who could afford multiple pieces, the ones who, if they developed a taste for an artist's work, could support a career for years.

And that was why, at Miguel Valadez's Tuesday night opening in SoHo, the only person who truly mattered was Adam.

Every eye was on him as he drifted through the rooms, every ear attuned when he deigned to share an opinion with another attendee. (The figures have the powerful musculature of an Orozco mural. The colors are jarring, yet complementary within each piece. The rebellious undercurrents of the poor crushing the rich are in tune with the latest political fashions.)

But there was only one opinion they wanted to hear: would one of Adam's clients be tempted? Could he broker a new love affair for the artist, find him someone who would fall in love with piece after piece? The artist and his friends orbited around Adam but didn't approach, lest they seem too eager. The yuppies kept their wallets tucked away and tried to get Adam to open up, to give them an idea of the future marketability of the pieces.

Adam walked among them as an idol, savoring the power and popularity of the ultimate matchmaker, the man everyone needed. He could find the artist a patron, and he could sell the next fix to a collector desperate to sate a craving, willing to pay anything to fill the bottomless hole in his collection. The percentage Adam made was almost an afterthought to the way a night like this made him feel.

After he'd made his inspection, he drifted over to the corner where the artist was huddled with his people. The friends scattered at his approach, and Valadez, in jeans and a boho beanie, straightened his shoulders and moved to shake Adam's gloved hand.

Adam had dressed for the evening in subdued gray wool and brown leather evoking a Redon landscape, with a slash of energy in his black and white tie. Valadez's eyes widened as he squeezed the supple kidskin-leather gloves, and his eyes darted over Adam's ensemble, recalculating price tags and designer labels. A shrewd man, Adam noted with satisfaction.

"Mr. Lambert," Valadez said, voice pleasingly rough from too many cigarettes. "I'm so glad you could come tonight."

"So am I," Adam said with sincerity. "I like what I've seen; you have a unique vision."

"That's a generous compliment."

Yes, it really was. Adam smiled. "Your colors in particular are exceptionally well chosen. I could see some of these side by side with Gauguin's Polynesian work."

It was to Valadez's credit that he didn't flinch at the potential marriage of his works of civil unrest to exploitative female nudes. "Yes," Valadez said eagerly, seeing not Adam's vision, but the dollar signs implied.

"Would you be willing to work on a larger scale? These are fine for medium-sized rooms, but if you had the materials…."

"Of course! I would of course be interested in working with a larger canvas."

Adam nodded, making a mental note of his eagerness to please. There were definite possibilities, here; the Fleischmanns had become bored with the Impressionists. Infusing some low-priced, Mexican revolutionary fire into the mix could reinvigorate their whole collection—and whet their appetites for the more expensive European masters once more.

"Were there any particular pieces that interested you? Personally or…professionally?"

"Yes. I'll need prints of the sunburst collage, the broken altar, and the mob on Wall Street. I'd like to take them with me tonight, if you have them."

"I have them! José Léon!" he snapped his fingers sharply, and one of his friends side-stepped along the wall to join the conversation, not meeting Adam's eyes. Valadez rapped out instructions in Spanish, and José Léon darted for the back room, practically jogging across the small, leased space.

Around the room, there were whispers and the slithering sound of wallets leaving pockets.

Valadez's chin was high as he took note of the changed atmosphere. He smiled and brushed his fingers over the silk sleeve of Adam's Cerruti button-down and asked, "Is there anything else I can give you?"

  


Adam left the gallery with Valadez's prints locked in his briefcase and his private number tucked in his breast pocket. He stepped out onto the dark, windy sidewalk of Crosby Street, brisk with tourists and locals hurrying to the shops and restaurants of SoHo. Balthazar's was just around the corner, and Adam was debating stopping in for a nightcap when he noticed the lone figure leaning against the brick façade across the cobblestoned street.

The short FBI agent was unmistakable in the way he slouched off the wall and headed straight for Adam.

The heady euphoria of Adam's evening soured into anger and a fear he wouldn't admit to, and Adam stood his ground instead of walking away. He didn't wait for Kris to say something charming this time, to flirt before menacing Adam's freedom. "What the fuck are you doing here?" he snarled when Kris reached his sidewalk.

Kris opened his mouth to speak, and a woman with a stroller and a large Sur La Table bag brushed between them, her shopping bag bouncing off Kris's knee with a dull thud. Kris winced and glared after her unrepentant back before saying, "Following you."

"I'm _working_. This is my _job_ ," Adam hissed. "The FBI has no right to hassle a citizen going about his legal business!"

"I'm not really here on official business," Kris shrugged. "My shift ended a few hours ago."

"What?"

Guileless eyes blinked up at him; Adam wanted to punch them shut. "I just wanted to see where you were going."

"You're watching me… _off-shift_ …because you're _curious_?" Adam sputtered.

Kris nodded.

Adam's previous conceptions of Kris were being shot down left and right. Nothing about him made sense anymore. "Are you even a real FBI agent?"

"Yeah," Kris said, sounding surprised.

"Let me see some ID."

Kris pulled a leather wallet from his back pocket and held it open for Adam to see the badge and credentials.

Adam reached for the wallet, but Kris pulled it back.

" _Hey_ ," Adam said sharply, and reached for it again.

Kris reluctantly let Adam get his fingers on it, but held on when Adam pulled the credentials toward him to read.

Something in the apologetic set of Kris's shoulders was giving off vibes that Adam never misinterpreted. So Adam straightened up to his full height, cleared his throat, and stared Kris down. He tugged harder, pushing the agent to break another of his precious rules.

And Kris yielded, releasing the leather fold with an anxious twist to his lips. Adam smirked and took a step back so he could read it in the light pouring from the shop window behind him, and Kris followed, radiating vulnerability with every flicker of his long eyelashes. For just a moment, Adam savored the victory of having this beautiful man at such a disadvantage. He wondered if Kris had any idea how much he'd just given away, the list of things he would let Adam do to him growing longer with every passing second. Adam had always assumed FBI agents were made of stronger stuff than this.

FBI agents. Crap.

This game he wanted to play with the Fed…. Or the game the Fed was trying to run on _him_ …. Brad was right; Adam needed to steer clear and keep his nose clean. So long as the diptych was in his possession, _Adam_ was the vulnerable one. He needed to keep his mind on business and make sure the Feds didn't get enough probable cause to authorize a search warrant or phone tap.

Angered by his own lapse in concentration, Adam pulled his eyes from Kris's far-too-appealing face and focused on the credentials in his hand.

Adam knew from fake IDs, and these looked solid. Even still, he would have to have Brad do some double checking into this particular agent. In the meantime, he assumed the character of an indignant, innocent businessman. "Special Agent Kristopher Allen," he sneered. "With a 'K.'"

"Yeah," he nodded, empty fingers twitching in the air between them.

"Do you make a habit of spending your free time stalking your targets, Agent Allen?"

"No," he said simply.

"No," Adam repeated. "Then why are you following _me_?"

"Because you're you," he explained.

"So, what— You mean I'm _special_?"

"Yeah, you are."

For all the efforts Adam made to be special, memorable, on a daily basis, being "special" to the Federal Bureau of Investigation had never been a goal of his. Now that he'd been noticed, they would always keep tabs on him. The next time a high-profile art piece went missing, guess who they would put under surveillance. And the piece after that, and the piece after that. There was no way to turn invisible now; they would always be watching him. Adam's temper snapped, and he lashed out at the FBI agent in front of him, the one whose soulful brown eyes were threatening to ruin the life he'd worked so hard to create.

"You've got some fucking nerve," Adam snarled. "This is my _life_ you're fucking with. I haven't done anything wrong, and you're stalking me like I'm some kind of serial killer or something. The government has better things to do with their money, and the FBI doesn't have the right to interfere with my life without just cause, and _you_ don't have the right to follow me around off-duty. So back the _fuck off_ before I call your supervisors and tell them how you've blown their surveillance."

Agent Allen opened his mouth to defend himself, and Adam turned his back and dropped the leather wallet and credentials into a puddle of standing water under the shop's drainpipe. He used his long legs to move swiftly down the sidewalk, flagging down a cab at the corner and not bothering to check if the agent followed him again.

  


"Why me?" he demanded as he paced around the kitchen table. "Why the hell are they after _me_?"

Brad quirked a half-smile and said, "Is that a rhetorical question, or do you really want me to answer that?"

"No, and _yes_. I have the Matheron Diptych," Adam admitted, "but _they_ don't know that—they _can't_."

"Unless Sinclair cut a deal," Brad said, repeating his earlier warning. "I still can't reach him. Harry says he's gone off the grid."

"Asshole had better be getting a tan in Aruba and not sitting in some FBI safe house."

"Such hostility," Brad tsked. "I thought you liked him. He's one of your best suppliers—"

"I liked him a lot better before somebody tipped the Feds off to what's in my storage locker. Either he told the Feds himself, or he told somebody else about me."

"And it couldn't be any of the other dozen thieves you've worked with? With enough pressure, _I'd_ probably give up your name to get out of an interrogation room."

Adam smiled slightly. "No, you wouldn't."

Brad played like he would deny it, and then relented. "Fine, not you. But I might give up Lou. And definitely Emilio."

"Well, he has it coming," Adam growled, fighting down the too-familiar wave of jealousy.

"Hmm," Brad said, not exactly agreeing, and giving Adam that terrible, knowing look again.

"Anyway, that's not even the _point_ ," Adam said, returning to his most pressing concern, "which is how to get rid of my creepy new FBI nemesis before he puts me out of business."

"Wait, is this the cute one? You saw the creepy cute one again?"

"Yeah, he followed me to the Valadez opening. _Off-duty_."

"Off-duty?"

"He said he was 'curious where I was going.' So not only are the Feds spying on my place 24/7, but now I've got _this_ guy waging a personal crime-vendetta against me."

"Have you considered it's 'cause he can't keep his eyes off your sweet, sweet ass?" Adam glared at Brad until he raised his hands. "Right, sorry. You _do_ have a great ass, though."

Adam growled and sat his mostly-toned ass down in a chair, pushing aside the guilty thought that it was time he moved to the next setting on the Stairmaster. "I can't keep making deals when I've got some obsessed Fed trying to make his career off me, like I'm the Davidoff-Morini Stradivarius or something. And since when do the Feds target fences, anyway? They should be after the guys who _stole_ the damned thing! Let 'em go hunt Sinclair's crew for a while!"

"And how is them tracking down Sinclair supposed to help your situation?"

"Fuck you," Adam huffed. "You know what I mean."

Brad snorted and picked up the marble rolling pin from the counter. "Yeah. You're in one of your _moods_ ," he said sweetly.

Adam glowered but didn't deny it. Nobody took the piss out of him like Brad. "Do me a favor tomorrow; find out about this guy." Adam slid his notes on Kristopher Allen across the table.

Brad glanced at the paper and made a face at it. "You're gonna stalk your stalker?"

"Have you ever heard of a Fed acting like this one?" Adam challenged his friend. "Just make sure he's legit."

"Sure thing." And then Brad arched his back that way that always got Adam's attention. "Okay, this isn't the time to be talking new business, what with…everything. But uh," Brad rolled the marble rod between his palms suggestively.

Adam kept his eyes on Brad's face instead of his body. "What?"

"I got a call from someone looking to make a sale. I told him I'd pass you the info—"

"No. No new merchandise with the Feds camped outside." Adam pushed off the table and headed for the desk in the living room, getting away from Brad's seductive proposition.

"Adam…" Brad whined, following him.

"Are you kidding me?" Adam threw back.

"Just hear me out!"

"Fine," Adam snapped, flipping through his day-planner. "Who is it?"

"New supplier."

" _Hell_ no," he glared at Brad over his shoulder.

"I _know_ , worst timing ever, but he's got a rose period Picasso. Now tell me that doesn't sound like the easiest offloading since that Rodin study you had three years ago?"

Adam's heart skipped a beat, and he hesitated before saying, "Picasso?"

Brad typed on his phone for a few seconds and then held it out to Adam, a burnt orange tableau of a mother and son filling the screen.

"Fuck," Adam sighed, anger forgotten as he leaned in for a closer look.

"Exactly," Brad nodded. "I wouldn't even have mentioned it to you but...nrrgh!"

It was definitely from the rose period and worth at least $2 million. "Fuck me, you're right." __

 __"And he's only asking 400."

Adam recoiled from the phone like it might bite him. "You're _shitting_ me. Just how hot is this?"

"The Musée d'Art Moderne last May."

"Interpol," Adam spat, like the curse it was.

Brad pocketed the phone abruptly. "You're right. It's not worth the risk." And he turned and headed back to his bedroom as though the matter were actually settled—as though he hadn't left Adam to stew in temptation.

20 minutes later, Adam was sitting on Brad's bed asking, "$400,000 US?"—just to clarify, not because he was actually considering it.

Brad started whistling in the bathroom as he gelled his hair.

"D'you think it's the same crew? Why the hell would they still be sitting on it? And why bring it to America?"

Brad's phone flew through the open door and landed on the bedspread next to him. Of course Brad had pulled up the Picasso again. " _That's_ all I know," he called.

Adam traced his finger over the faces. "And you didn't warn them the Feds are all up my ass?"

"Bitch, please."

It was beyond beautiful. And Brad was right—it would be so easy to offload. A little shell game to get the Feds watching the wrong courier, and the piece would be out of his hands before any federal warrants got approved. And to have a Picasso to his name….

"Okay. Okay, yeah. Get back in touch and find out who's handling the authentication. As long as it's someone we trust, I'll take the sale. _Don't_ give them any recommendations."

"Duh," Brad said, winking at him from the bathroom. "I've only been doing this since grade school."

  


A hot pink folder dropped onto his desk.

Adam looked up from his binder on the Smythe collection and gamely slid the folder in front of him. "What's this?"

"Everything on our Peeping Toms," Brad said, leaning against the desk and nudging Adam up out of his chair.

Adam sighed and stood up, giving Brad center stage. Brad opened the folder and started laying out papers for their perusal.

"Okay, I talked to the doorman; they've been in _that_ apartment," his eyes flicked toward the high rise across the street but he didn't point, despite the blinds they'd kept drawn for days, "for the last two weeks. Six days after the Verner Gallery job."

"Shit."

"Yeah. It's definitely sounding like they were tipped off. I got this shot from the roof," he pointed to a black and white photo angled down into the Feds' apartment. "They've got a telescope _and_ video cameras, so if they miss anything the first time, they'll catch it the second."

"Still no sign of microphones?"

"Nothing that I could see, but that's not a guarantee. And if they _can_ hear us, we're already fucked."

Adam cracked a wry smile and shrugged. "They haven't busted down my door yet, so I guess that's a vote for no sound."

Brad nodded. "Then I'm gonna risk incriminating myself a little more: I got Jenny to run surveillance, and her girls got everyone coming in and out of the building yesterday. I've narrowed it down to these guys," he pulled out a thin stack of full-page color printouts. "Six of 'em. They're working in pairs, doing eight hour shifts."

Adam leafed through the photos, memorizing faces. Half of them were wearing trench coats, but they all had that 'federal agent' set to their shoulders, the swagger and confidence that came from knowing the Unites States government had their backs. "Who's in charge?" he asked, flipping quickly past a photo of Agent Allen in the Madison Avenue crosswalk.

"None of these guys," Brad said, taking the six photos away from him. "They don't overlap long enough for any kind of reporting out. But here's what we got on your stalker."

Brad pushed a stapled packet toward Adam, featuring a full-color close-up of Allen carrying Burger King bags into the apartment building. That was him alright, bright-eyed and innocent as he looked past the camera, just as appealing as the first time Adam had met him. When he'd just been "Kris."

Adam forced his eyes off the picture and focused on the back of Brad's head as his ex leaned down to turn the page. There was a big red mark on Brad's neck from his latest night with Justin.

"Not who I would've picked as the vigilante type, but definitely easy on the eyes," Brad continued, flipping to the second page. "From Conway, Arkansas. Parents are still married, younger brother is a college cheerleading coach—mmm, _flexible_. Here's his high school yearbook page. And you're not gonna believe this." Adam picked up the packet to skim the article Brad had printed off the _Faulkner County Gazette's_ website—a story about a handful of youth group kids going on a missionary trip to Mozambique.

"A _missionary_?"

"Yeah. You're being chased by a fucking _saint_. I got you his college transcript—business major. Joined the FBI right out of college, and he's been promoted a couple times in the last five years. He's good, is what I'm saying. This isn't some slack-off drone who's gonna drop the ball."

"You're killing me."

"Hang in there, sweetie, I'm almost done. He's got a studio apartment in Brooklyn." The last page of the packet was a shot of an old apartment building on a crappy-looking street. "He's living like he's broke, so he's not taking bribes. His neighbors recalled seeing a couple of girlfriends over the last two years, but nothing that seemed to last long."

"No boyfriends?"

"Not that they knew about."

Adam was surprised again; Allen had seemed completely comfortable flirting with him. He couldn't decide if that meant Kristopher Allen was in the closet or a damn good actor.

Brad looked up at him. "If you can't bribe this guy, I think there's only one way to get rid of him. Lose the diptych. Get the Feds chasing somebody else so they stop the surveillance," he suggested for the third time that week.

Adam paced over to the windows and folded his arms across his chest. "It's way too hot for the market right now, and I'm not about to write off half a million just because some Fed gets a hard on at the idea of busting me."

Brad tried to stare him down, a scowl on his pretty face, but Adam wouldn't budge.

"The diptych stays in storage until I find a buyer. For full value, too."

"You're being stubborn. How about just breaking even—"

"No!" Adam's pride flared and he stomped back to the desk to jab his finger at the dossier Brad had collected. "If I'm gonna be that scared of the Feds, I may as well cut and run. And I'm not about to give up everything we've— _I've_ got going here." He caught the inclusive pronoun too late, glared harder at the file so he wouldn't have to meet Brad's eyes.

After a long moment, Brad said, "Okay. I still love you, stubbornness and all—"

Adam coughed to cover his flinch at the pain that word caused.

"—but we've gotta be _extra careful_ ," Brad finished.

Arms slipped around Adam's waist, and he reluctantly raised his head to meet Brad's gaze. "I am," Adam said. "I'm being more honest than the proverbial honest citizen."

"Oh, the indignity," Brad snorted and leaned up on his toes, placed a soft kiss on Adam's lips before dropping back down on his heels.

" _You're_ the one setting up buys for new merchandise," Adam said, trying to ignore his body's reaction to having Brad pressed against him again. "You're not getting a finder's fee, you know."

"I know. And I'll be good and save the laying-low lecture 'til after tomorrow's buy. Go bring home the bacon, baby." Brad pinched his ass and skipped out of reach before Adam could retaliate.


	2. Chapter 2

  


Brad's blessing wasn't very comforting when his Dolce & Gabbana wingtip boots were getting ruined. Adam tipped up the edge of his umbrella and was momentarily distracted by the way the rain softened the hard lines of reality, turning the world into a moving Monet, the trees and statuary, grass and concrete blurring into each other under the steady downpour.

An elderly couple walking a German Sheppard strolled into the park, the only civilians willing to loiter in the rain on a Friday morning. He snapped back to reality and checked his watch. It was 10:05; he'd been waiting in South Cove Park for ten minutes, so where the hell were his suppliers?

When his cell phone rang, Adam pulled the glove off his hand, blew on his fingers, and answered, "Lambert."

"Mr. Lambert, we'll meet you on the jetty."

"What? No, why would you—"

Two men emerged from the tree-line, heading down the walking path to the pier. One of them carried a large, black portfolio case. The other waved his phone at Adam and pointed emphatically to the pier.

Adam pocketed his phone and scowled at this turn of events. The park was a premium meeting place; public, yet deserted, with plenty of exits. The pier, on the other hand, was a negative-six on the acceptable meeting place scale. They would be isolated and exposed. Only an amateur would want to hold the deal out there.

He shifted from foot to foot, considering the fragile relationship he was attempting to construct. If he called back and ordered them to get off the pier, he might sound overly paranoid. It could torpedo the whole deal and cost him his first Picasso.

Reluctantly, Adam made his way toward the curved jetty, careful on the slick wooden planks as he trailed his new contacts out over the water.

"Mr. Lambert, you come highly recommended," the one with the moustache greeted him, holding out a dry, white hand under his over-sized umbrella.

"And you come with no recommendation," Adam smiled, barely keeping the disapproving edge out of his voice as he shook the proffered hand. "But I suppose what's in that case speaks for itself."

Moustache's eyes crinkled over a warm smile. "That's what I was hoping you'd say. Shall we take a look?"

Adam's heart leapt, but instinct made him go slow. "Not just yet. You didn't bring any friends with you?" His gaze swept the park for anyone who could be watching them. He'd triple-checked for a possible FBI tail on his ride downtown, but that didn't mean his new friends didn't have shadows of their own.

"I don't see anyone else here," Moustache pointed out, smiling even wider. "It's just the two of us, as we agreed."

"I meant Interpol. You don't have a tail, do you?"

"Of course not," he scoffed. "We're totally clean."

Yet all three of them took another look around, just to be sure. Aside from a guy jogging down the far end of the rainy Esplanade, the coast was still clear.

"Okay," Adam said, paranoia assuaged. "Let's see it."

Moustache took Soulpatch's umbrella and held it up as Soulpatch unclasped the case and eased it open a few inches. Adam stepped under their umbrellas for a better look, leaning close to see the burnt-orange brush strokes under a protective plastic sheet.

"Oh yes," he said happily, and then a gust of wind shook the umbrellas. Adam reached for Soulpatch's hands even as the bagman jerked the case shut against the harder rain. "Good save," Adam said, stepping back under his own umbrella again.

"You're satisfied?" Moustache asked, passing an umbrella back to Soulpatch.

" _Very_. I'll just need your account number." Adam pulled his phone out and loaded his banking interface. He was just starting to punch in his password when a voice cut through the rain drumming against the umbrellas and wooden jetty.

"Adam!"

His head jerked up and he caught the tension in the two men in front of him before they all turned to stare at the man in the blue windbreaker sprinting down the slippery pier toward them.

Oh shit. Oh god.

Soulpatch muttered something he didn't make out, and Adam pocketed his phone, saying, "Hey, uh, maybe we can finish this some other time?"

Agent Allen jogged up to them, breathless and scowling, and tugged his jacket straight so the bright yellow FBI initials on the front were legible. "Hi, guys," he said. "What's going on here?"

Adam couldn't even muster any anger at seeing Kris Allen in an actual uniform this time. He was too caught up in the dread and misery of defeat. That was his future staring back at him: wearing those hideous orange jumpsuits, begging Brad to smuggle hair products into prison for him. He looked over the railing at the small waves below them. Jersey City didn't look _that_ far a swim….

"Nothing, we were just, uh, enjoying the view," Moustache said. "It's a great day for sightseeing. No tourists to get in the way!"

Soulpatch forced out a laugh.

Suddenly tires screeched, and Adam turned around to see a black SUV barreling down from the Museum of Jewish Heritage, cornering sharply down the walking path into South Cove Park. Obviously the rest of the Feds, coming to take them all to jail.

"It was nice meeting you," Moustache said pleasantly, and then he and Soulpatch shoved Allen, knocking him on his ass as they sprinted off the pier.

After a frozen second Adam decided to follow their lead, but Allen rolled and stood up, gun pointed at their backs. Adam stayed where he was and put his hands up, umbrella flying out of his grip with the next gust of wind.

The agent didn't shout for them to stop, didn't fire his weapon or call in reinforcements. He just watched as they climbed in the (apparently _not_ FBI) SUV with the Picasso and peeled rubber out of the park.

"Thank god you're okay," Allen said eventually, breathing hard as rain pelted down on his brown hair.

"What?" Adam demanded.

The agent tucked his gun back into the holster under his jacket and shifted his shoulder until it lay right. Big eyes looked up at him, full of worry. "I thought I wasn't gonna make it in time." His hand reached out for Adam's arm, to take him into custody.

Adam pulled away and pointed after his co-conspirators. "You _let them go_ ," Adam accused bitterly. If he was about to get arrested for receiving stolen goods, the Feds could've at least arrested the actual thieves, too.

"I didn't have anything on them."

"You…. _They have the Picasso_! You just lost a Picasso!"

Allen shook his head. "Fake."

Adam bit back his protest that he'd had it authenticated by a very credible forger. He settled for a despairing, "No, it wasn't."

"They didn't bring the real one. That was a fake, just good enough to convince you to buy. Once they had access to your account, they were gonna kill you and take off."

"What? That is such bullshit—"

"I heard them! I was listening to them in that SUV—they already killed two fences in Miami with this con!"

Adam glared at the short agent and snorted in disbelief. "So you got a murder confession. And you let them _leave_?"

"It wasn't legal," Allen said, sounding pained. "I didn't have a warrant."

"Of course. And what's the rest of your team gonna think of you letting a bunch of murderers get away?" He glanced around for Allen's backup.

"They won't know. They don't know I'm here."

"Oh god," Adam groaned, and _there_ was the anger he couldn't find before, because seriously, what the _hell_. "You're off-duty again, aren't you! You follow me, you eavesdrop on conversations illegally…. What is your _deal_?"

Allen's eyes started doing that thing again—the overly sincere, adoring thing. He'd called Adam "special" the other night…. Adam took another wary step back.

"I was just looking out for you," he explained. "I wanted to make sure you were okay." His tone turned exasperated when he added, "You came _here_ for a meeting—this is the _worst_ place for a meeting!"

Adam couldn't argue with him on that. But that didn't make it okay for an FBI agent to follow him to a secret business deal, to use illegal wiretaps, or to make up some bullshit story about saving his life to try to earn his trust. "If you're trying to convince me to turn on those guys, you're outta luck," Adam said, refusing to incriminate himself any further. "I don't know who they were, or what they wanted to buy or sell, and I don't have any way to contact them."

Allen rolled his eyes. "I'm not here to turn you."

"Then fucking arrest me already," he snapped at the short agent keeping him cornered at the end of the pier. The rain was flattening Adam's hair and soaking through his coat, the D&G boots were definitely past saving, and he was pissed and cold and ready to get dry.

"I'm not—" Allen said, and then cut himself off, looking surprised. "I'm _not_ gonna arrest you."

Incredulous, Adam blinked at him for a few seconds, trying to read the man's mind through his earnest brown eyes.

But when Allen took a step toward him, Adam jerked away. "Then stay the hell away from me," he ordered. He spared a glance for his Burberry umbrella floating in the Hudson before stomping around Allen and down the pier.

  


Almost 24 hours after the disastrous Picasso buy, Brad kicked Adam out of the condo with orders to "buy some new suits for god's sake." Brad had claimed he needed privacy to verify the Fed's story with his Miami contacts, but Adam knew it was just Brad's excuse to escape the guilt-trip the conman so very much deserved for setting up the Picasso deal in the first place.

Although Adam wouldn't admit it to Brad's face, Brad did have a point about Adam needing a change of scenery. Pacing around the condo while the Feds tried to peer through the blinds made him feel like a rat in a cage, and the last few years had taught them both that a mood as black as Adam's could only be cured by shopping. So Adam spent the day in retail-therapy, prowling the boutiques of Chelsea and filling his wardrobe with even more weapons of devastation.

By the time he was finishing off a new look in John Varvatos on 17th, he'd managed to temporarily forget his three-letter problem.

Until the FBI walked through the door.

Adam froze, his quest for the perfect belt cut short as the door jingled shut behind Agent Kristopher Allen. For an irrational moment he considered ducking—maybe hiding under one of the tables of handbags—but there wouldn't have been any point.

The agent knew exactly what he was looking for. His roving eyes spotted Adam in less than a second. A smile lit Allen's face, and Adam's teeth clenched with indignation.

Adam turned and marched back to the fitting room, refusing to acknowledge the FBI's open tail.

"No luck on the belt, sir?" the young man staffing the spacious fitting room asked, noting his empty hands.

"Adam!" Allen called after him.

Adam forced a smile onto his face and shook his head. "No luck." He began shrugging out of the silk suit jacket, and the assistant was instantly behind him, helping him free himself.

"Adam," the FBI agent repeated, stepping into the fitting room. "I need to talk to you."

Adam's smile faded, but he stared determinedly at his own reflection in the three-sided mirror. The assistant's hands fluttered around him, tugging the elegantly distressed line of the shirt straight and squeezing familiarly on his hips.

On any other day, Adam would have reveled in the attention, but any second now Agent Allen was going to start listing Adam's crimes in front of witnesses. "Maybe you could recommend one to me," Adam suggested to the handsy assistant.

"Sir?"

"Find me a belt."

"Certainly!" the assistant said. And then his eyes flicked back and forth between Allen and his customer, and his mouth quirked knowingly. "I'll just be a moment."

Adam fussed with his shirt cuffs and waited for Allen to spit out whatever he'd come to say. If he'd come to finally arrest him, Adam wouldn't beg. And if he hadn't, he could fuck off.

What he had to say was, apparently, "Hi."

Adam didn't return the greeting, determined to ignore the man until he said something worth his time. Adam had important things to worry about—like cufflinks. The obvious choice would be his sapphire pair, he mused, but the peridot would be an interesting contrast against the blue stripes.

"How are you?" Allen asked.

Adam should have mentioned his preference for silver hardware over gold, he realized. Oh well, if the attendant came back with a gold buckle, it would be a convenient reason to send him out again.

"You look great," Allen said.

And Adam's fragile Retail Zen finally collapsed. "I'm busy," he said, still refusing to look at Kris—no, _Agent Allen_.

"You usually are," Allen agreed.

"And so are you. Get out of here and go _do your job_."

"Can't do that."

"Why the hell not?" Adam snapped, turning to glare at his nemesis.

"I quit." Allen said it with an 'oh shucks, what can you do' shrug and one of those serene smiles.

"You…."

"Quit. Yeah. Handed in my credentials and my gun last night."

Last night, which came after yesterday, when he'd stalked Adam to the pier and ruined his chance to fence his first Picasso. "Sure," he deadpanned. "I totally believe that."

"This isn't a trick."

"Of course not," Adam said, humoring him with a smile. He faced the mirror again and unbuttoned the second button thoughtfully.

"That's okay, you don't have to believe me," Allen announced, stepping into the mirror's reflection. "That's not why I'm here."

"Obviously. Because if you'd quit, you'd have no reason to still be following me."

Allen shook his head, smiling. "No, I'm here because…you offered to take me on a tour, once or twice. And I'm here to accept."

Adam's spine stiffened, and the wrinkles in the shirt suddenly fell smooth. But he couldn't care less about that, because he was suddenly _beyond pissed_. Openly tailing him around the city, eavesdropping on his deals, spying on his home—Adam had put up with a lot from the Federal Bureau of Investigation, but there was no way he was going to roll over for some goddamn honey pot.

"That offer's off the table," Adam said coldly.

"Why?"

"Because you're a fucking Fed!"

"No, I'm not. See?" Allen pulled off the maroon pullover and held out his arms as he turned around. "No gun, no walkie-talkie. And no credentials, either."

Adam tried not to notice Allen's fit body, framed so nicely in jeans and a black t-shirt. The new outfit was a vast improvement over the khakis and white button-downs, but those sartorial sins had been useful reminders of the threat the man posed. "Look, Agent Allen—"

"Kris," he interrupted. "I'm not Agent Allen anymore. Please call me Kris."

" _Agent Allen_ ," Adam repeated, "I find your behavior offensive and insulting. I would like you to leave."

"Unless you own the store, you can't throw me out," he pointed out cheekily.

"Well, the people who _do_ own the place don't like it when tourists come in just to _gawk_. If you're not here to buy, I suggest you get out."

"Oh, I'm definitely here to buy," Kris smirked.

Adam gritted his teeth at the insulting innuendo and glared at the man standing behind him. All traces of the stammering, shy klutz from the coffee shop were gone, all his hidden motives revealed. Adam couldn't believe the audacity of the agent, inviting himself back to Adam's place as if he genuinely expected to be welcomed. As if the FBI thought Adam could be tricked by his dick into letting Kris into his home without a warrant.

"I'm not interested," Adam said with finality.

Kris dug his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels, the picture of relaxed confidence. "You're lying."

"No, I'm genuinely—"

"I know you want me, Adam. I want you, too."

While the lower half of Adam might be prepared to admit that this new confidence looked pretty damn sexy on a man who was already gorgeous to begin with, he'd be damned if he was going to give the Fed any encouragement. "Fuck you," he said eloquently.

Kris nodded. "If that's what you want."

"Oh, fuck—" Adam threw his hands in the air. "I _want_ you to get out of here and leave me alone. There's not gonna be any 'tour,' or any fucking. Beat it."

"I know I can change your mind," Kris said, and took a step toward him.

That was one step closer than Adam was going to allow him. Adam ducked into one of the dressing room stalls to avoid an undignified physical confrontation.

He didn't get the door shut in time.

"Adam," Kris said, his foot blocking the doorframe and his hands pulling the door open despite Adam's hard tugging.

"Leave me the fuck alone," Adam hissed. Where the hell was the attendant?

"No." Kris's upper arms flexed appealingly as he wrenched the door out of Adam's grip. "Not until you hear me out," he insisted and stepped inside.

Adam backed up as far as he could, his fists clenched with barely-controlled anger and something else he refused to think about when Kris closed the door behind them. Finding himself trapped in a small room with an impossibly hot guy wasn't exactly unheard of for him—he'd gotten stuck in conveniently-broken elevators with over-eager suitors _twice_ last year—but he knew how dangerous it would be to touch an FBI agent.

Especially one who could read his mind. "I'm not with the FBI anymore. At the moment, I'm embarrassingly unemployed. But I can fix that," Kris reassured him, as though Adam's top concern was Kris's income. "And I know you don't believe me, but it's the truth. I wanted you to be the first person I told—"

"What, like we're _friends_? I don't care, Kris!"

Kris smiled suddenly, like Adam had said something _nice_ , instead of—

Crap.

"You want me," Kris repeated, voice dropping into a sweet, slow drawl.

"No," Adam snapped, even as desire flared brighter than his anger. He wasn't sure who he was trying to convince, himself or Agent Allen, so he said it again and used his extra height and weight to slam Kris against the mirror. "No. _You_ want _me_."

He'd expected Kris to push back, to be as aggressive as when he'd forced his way into the dressing room…to try to lead him back to his condo. But instead, Kris relaxed. He flexed his shoulders under Adam's hands and tilted his chin up, arching his back, sending out those damn _vibes_ again. "So much," he panted, cheeks flushed, and Adam knew if he looked down, he would see _exactly_ how much Kris liked having Adam's hands on him.

Adam resented everything Kris represented: the interference in his life; the threat to his freedom and livelihood; the assumption that Adam could be bought with a hot piece of ass. But Kris's obvious lies and even more obvious pleasure were pushing all of Adam's buttons. This was what he lived for; to be wanted this much, to have someone look at him the way Kris was right now. He'd wanted Kris Allen from the second he'd seen him, and now he was here in Adam's hands, practically begging to be touched.

So Adam did. He wrapped a hand around Kris's throat, and the agent whimpered and tilted his head back even more for him, eyes slipping heedlessly shut. Adam growled and kissed him, hard and thorough, taking what he wanted with his tongue before punishing Kris's lower lip with his teeth.

Kris gave him everything he demanded, soft lips falling open to welcome him. Heat surged under Adam's skin when Kris wrapped his arms around Adam's waist and whispered, "Please," his body nearly shaking under Adam's touch. Adam fisted a hand in Kris's hair and kissed him again until they were both breathless and panting.

Kris groaned, his body moving against Adam's, both of them hard as Adam ground their hips together, pressing Kris against the mirror. It was deliriously good, impossible to stop. Kris's hands found Adam's shirt and pulled it out of his slacks, fumbled to undo the buttons. Hot fingers brushed across Adam's stomach, making him buck and grind harder against Kris.

God, the sounds Kris was making—little gasps and moans that passed from Kris's mouth into Adam's—were addicting and went straight to his cock, making him jerk in his pants. Adam squeezed the nape of Kris's neck and chased those sounds with his tongue as Kris pushed the silk Varvatos shirt open and slid both hands up Adam's bare chest.

Kris pushed him back to look, to say, "You're so beautiful," awe in his eyes before he leaned in to kiss Adam's throat, his shoulder, his chest.

Adam tried to catch his breath, but Kris didn't give him a chance, trailing his lips lower and lower until he was kneeling on the floor and reaching for Adam's fly.

"God, yeah," Adam gasped and thumbed the top button open so Kris could tug the zipper down. He fought the urge to close his eyes, because he wanted to watch when Kris pulled him out of his boxers and slid his tongue across the tip of his cock. "Fucking _hell_."

Kris looked up at him one last time, eyes dark with lust before he wrapped those thick, soft lips around Adam's cock and began to suck.

Kris was sloppy and wild, slipping up with his teeth here and there, taking way too much before he slowed down and got a rhythm going, and Adam didn't fucking care. His eyes fell shut and he held on, fingers buried in Kris's hair, caressing his scalp, urging him forward every time he pulled back to breathe. Kris's tongue pressed against the underside of his cock, his lips tight, his mouth so hot and wet, just what Adam needed, and he couldn't help it when his hips started thrusting slightly, when Kris choked and moaned, Kris's strong hands on Adam's ass pulling him forward so he could take him deeper.

And Adam gave it to him, mumbling encouragement or curses, he didn't know which. He pushed in faster and deeper, Kris groaning on every thrust, drool running down Adam's cock and balls, and Adam could feel the climax building under his skin, his entire body thrumming with pleasure and tension until he jerked in Kris's mouth, coming with a raw shout.

Kris coughed and whimpered as Adam's grip eased, but Kris didn't pull back, holding onto Adam's cock and licking at it like candy, like he wanted to stay there on his knees, worshiping Adam's cock forever. And fuck, Adam would let him. Kris could follow him home, and Adam would lock him in his storage locker, along with all the other precious things worth breaking the law for. Let Kris investigate the statues, the paintings, the priceless Joséphine cameo to his heart's content, so long as he never tried to leave.

Adam opened his eyes, needing to watch Kris licking his lips and his cock, maybe some of Adam's cum that had escaped his greedy mouth. What he saw was the ruined mess of the Varvatos slacks, soaked and creased in their haste. When he looked away, he caught his reflection in the full-length mirror and cringed as he took in his flushed chest and the sweat-stained silk shirt; smeared eye makeup and eyes a little bloodshot from blinking back mascara; and the ugly, ugly trash he'd let himself become, losing control and fucking a man in the dressing room of a high-end boutique where anyone could have seen him.

Anyone could _still_ see him like this.

Adam recoiled, grabbing his cock out of Kris's hand and tucking it back into the disgraceful slacks. Kris rocked back on his heels and smiled up at him, so smug and satisfied, and Adam flinched. He zipped the pants, did up two buttons of the shirt, and shoved Kris back against the mirror so he could pick up his own clothes and cram them in his Comme Des Garçons shopping bag.

"Adam?" Kris said, blinking as though just waking up.

Adam ignored him, pushed at his hair a little to cover the sweat on his brow line, and stepped out into the fitting room.

Three salesclerks were lined up, staring at him with such identical expressions of shock that Adam nearly sobbed. He ripped the tags off the once-attractive shirt and slacks and dropped them on the floor, then pulled a credit card out of his wallet and pressed it into the hand of the nearest clerk. "Bill me," he ordered, and made himself walk out with his chin held high.

  


The condo was empty when he slouched through the front door, and Adam thanked his Aquarius stars that Brad wouldn't see him like this. He tore off the clothes and threw them in the trash before washing away the traces of dried sweat and saliva in the shower. When he finally turned off the water, his phone was ringing.

He snatched it up, blinked at the unknown number, and answered it anyway. "Hello?"

"Adam," Kris said, "let me in."

Adam's already-shaken equilibrium rocked dangerously, and he grabbed the edge of the slick marble countertop to stop his fall. " _What_?"

The doorbell chimed.

"I'm outside. Come on, let me in."

He blinked at the steamed-up mirror, grateful for the fog blurring his reflection. Of course Kris was trying to get in. It was his _job_ to find the diptych, after all—how could Adam have forgotten that so soon…. Because he'd _needed to_ —needed to forget. The suffocating shame clawed its way up his throat again, and Adam tried to will it back down.

"Go away," Adam choked out.

"Adam—"

"Go the fuck away and never come near me again."

"I can do better," Kris said, sounding desperate. "I'm sorry—I know I can do better, just let me see you." Through the phone, Adam could hear the doorknob rattling.

The water droplets were collecting and spilling in trails down the mirror, revealing his red eyes and naked body in streaks, like a ruined watercolor. "I have a gun," he lied. "You come through that door and I'll shoot you."

The rattling stopped. "Adam, _please_."

He hung up and dropped his phone on the plush bathmat.

  


Adam was dressed in a fussy layering of sweater vest, neckerchief, and Calvin Klein jeans by the time Brad called to get a dinner order, and he made sure his makeup was picture-perfect before his ex-boyfriend came home with carry-out from Dalia's.

"Adam! What's your Amex Black doing on the doormat?" Brad yelled from the foyer.

Adam fumbled the ring he'd been putting on, losing it under the bed. He clenched his hand in a fist and tried to catch his breath. He had to keep it together. He turned to the mirror again and scrutinized every inch of his appearance for anything out of place, did his best to ignore the bare fingers of his right hand, and then lifted his chin and made his way to the kitchen.

"Hey," he said when he saw Brad.

"Hey, babe. I guess you burned a hole in your pocket, huh?" Brad teased, unpacking the takeout containers on the counter. He nodded toward the credit card on the table. The one Adam had left at the boutique.

"Something like that," Adam mumbled, pocketing it and turning to the utensil drawer so he wouldn't have to meet Brad's eyes.

Brad cleared his throat and said warily, "So uh…you feeling any better?"

 _About what?_ , Adam almost blurted, but caught himself in time. "Fine," he said instead, with a quick smile over his shoulder. "I've completely forgotten about yesterday."

Brad smiled back and then frowned. He pushed the food aside and pulled out two tumblers and the good scotch.

"Pre-dinner drinks?" Adam asked, nervous that Brad was about to call him on what he'd done, that he could somehow read it on Adam's skin.

Brad poured a healthy amount of whiskey in each glass and slid one down the counter to Adam. "Just drink it. You're not gonna like what I have to say, so…."

Adam's guilty conscience wanted to blurt out a confession, but he silenced it with a large gulp that burned his thoughts clean. "Let's hear it."

Brad sipped for a long moment and then said, "My guy in Miami checked out the Fed's story. Two Miami fences were murdered this summer: the first in July, the second in September. No one knows what kind of deals they were involved in, and the cops don't have any leads. These were big-league guys, Adam. They were smart."

"So," Adam concluded grimly, wanting badly to punch someone, maybe himself. The whole world was conspiring against him, determined he shouldn't be allowed to put it behind him. He tipped back the rest of his scotch. The burn was even more painful this time.

"So," Brad agreed, and poured him another round. "The Fed may've been telling the truth yesterday. You said the pier was _their_ idea. That's a good place to do it; just roll your body into the river and walk away." He looked shaken as he said it, as though he were picturing it happening.

Adam braced his arms on the counter and made himself say, "You think this guy saved my life."

Brad hesitated. "I don't know anything for sure, but…."

"Fuck," Adam said, and Brad clinked his glass to Adam's in agreement.

  


Adam refused to think through the implications of Brad's information—how maybe Kris had been telling the truth on the pier…to whatever degree Kris ever told the truth. And how that meant the Feds had plans for Adam that didn't involve him getting killed in an unrelated buy. Such considerations were tied up with Kris's brown eyes pleading for Adam's touch, his luscious mouth sucking him down, Adam forgetting every lesson about who to be, _how_ to be…and it was just safer to put all of that out of his mind.

Adam embraced only one lesson from the last two terrible days: Always have an escape route.

That lesson came in handy the very next day, at a Sunday estate auction in Cove Neck. He'd hired a driver for the trip out to Long Island and arrived in style in a gleaming black Mercedes, but the second he stepped out of the car his skin prickled. Adam took off his sunglasses and looked at the line of cars pulled up in front of the mansion and the line of antiquers in their Sunday best waiting for the doors to open. No one was watching him openly, but he swore he felt like he was being watched.

And this time it wasn't a pleasant thought.

He hadn't managed to shake the feeling by the time Lou arrived, but he smiled when she kissed his cheek, and escorted her up the front steps.

They made the rounds of the various rooms, debating the potential resale values of Old World cabinetry and a charming pair of Thomas Sewell Robins marine watercolors. Adam chivalrously promised not to bid for the redwood writing desk she wanted for her home office. A few minutes later, Lou found a way to return the favor.

She grabbed his arm and murmured, "Oh, I've got the _perfect_ little item for you. Just your type." She poked his ribs and gestured discreetly toward the door they'd just passed through.

Adam smiled and followed her pointing finger past the potted palm, to the front hall where Kris Allen was standing.

Adam's blood ran hot and then cold at the sight of him. He looked even better than yesterday, those strong shoulders filling out a flattering black leather jacket, and despite all the unpleasant memories seeing him evoked, Adam had a sudden fear that he could do it again, could lose control and push Kris against a wall, devour him….

Thankfully, Kris wasn't looking at him. He was staring at someone else, a dangerous-looking scowl on his face.

Adam overrode his fight or flight instinct and turned his head to follow Kris's gaze, coincidentally locking eyes with the young man flipping through a first edition James Fennimore Cooper several feet away. The guy quickly looked back to the book, and Adam's skin prickled all over again. He held his breath and waited.

Five seconds later, the guy looked up at him again.

Adam's eyes narrowed, and the stranger's eyes widened. Adam glanced toward Kris, who was still looking at the young guy, Kris's body squared off like he was about to come marching into the room.

"Son of a bitch," the young guy said, glaring right back at Kris. He snapped the book shut and dumped it on the table, then ducked into the corner, fingers pressed to his right ear.

Adam didn't wait to see what Kris's new strategy was, or who _else_ the Feds had put on his tail. He dragged Lou into the empty glass conservatory.

"Adam, he's _that way_ ," Lou giggled. "You're gonna miss him."

"I hope you're right," he said, checking the views out the floor-to-ceiling windows. The coast looked clear, but he'd bet Kris had tailed his car out here and would be able to tail it again. "I have to go. Where's your car parked?"

"Down the road—the lot was full. Why?"

"I need to get out of here, like, _right now_. Gimme your keys. You can take my car service back."

"But what about the seascapes—"

"Screw the seascapes," he hissed. "Just give me your keys."

Lou huffed and fished through her oversized Jimmy Choo bag. "Which car's yours?"

"Black Mercedes."

"There're a _dozen_ black Mercedes out there," she protested.

"Mine has a bearded Irishman in the driver's seat."

"Ew. I hate beards."

He snatched the keys out of her fingers, hoping she didn't notice how his hand was shaking. "If anyone asks about me, just say I'm in the bathroom. And _don't_ talk to the guy in the leather jacket!"

"You so owe me for this."

He stole a kiss off her cheek and checked the windows one more time before letting himself out the side door into the English Garden and sprinting for the access road.

  


It had been bad enough when Kris was stalking him off-duty. But the FBI had apparently decided to up their ante and _officially_ follow Adam now, which meant plain clothes agents he couldn't recognize.

After that encounter out at Cove Neck, Adam started seeing shadows everywhere. When he walked down the street, he constantly felt he was being watched. He didn't like the way the hot dog vendor on 6th was eyeing him on Monday. Or the taxi with the _Spiderman Musical_ ad that paced him for five blocks on Tuesday, crawling through the green lights and holding up traffic.

Adam became extra cautious, checking for tails constantly—even when he wasn't doing anything illegal. The thought that agents were watching him set him on edge and made him jumpy.

And nerves were not something he could afford to have just then.

Dinner at Nobu on Tuesday evening was a delicate affair. Adam was trying to sell Lester Shaw, manager of the First National Bank on 7th Avenue, a collection of contemporary Navajo weavings for his bank foyer. He'd been courting Shaw for two months, and this dinner was the culmination of those efforts. Everything looked perfect; the restaurant was dim, the décor austere, and Adam had dressed to match in a blend of silver silk and cotton that looked lush in the low light without drawing Shaw's attention from his plate.

Shaw was a gastronome and self-professed connoisseur of sashimi. Adam plied him with champagne and house specialties, pumping a steady stream of endorphins through his system to prime him to write that six-figure check. The food stimulated the senses, firm sea bass sashimi with caviar and vanilla salt artfully served on rosy papaya slices, seared toro tuna with a crispy jalapeno glaze over swirls of creamy onion ponzu sauce, and the vibrantly yellow tobiko topping hikari mono nigiri, their silver scales shimmering against the backdrop of black porcelain.

Adam was a half-bottle of Veuve Clicquot away from sealing the deal when two businessmen at the next table caught his attention. The men weren't drinking nearly enough beer and seemed more interested in people watching than eating their sashimi. Adam was so preoccupied watching the way they watched the room, he barely heard Shaw's murmurings over the rich tuna tataki with wasabi foam and blushing ginger shavings.

And then Kris walked in the front door. Adam stiffened in his chair, expecting him to approach his fellow agents at the table next to Adam's, but Kris headed straight to a window table, where he gestured broadly and spoke too loudly to a cute young couple with first-date body language. Adam caught the word "surveillance," and the young woman put fingers to her ear and glanced Adam's way.

His chopsticks rolled out of his fingers.

Shaw was still talking, telling him to try the hamachi and pushing a plate of pink-hued fish across the table. Adam was so shaken by his mistake that he didn't know what to do. In desperation, he picked up his glass of champagne and spilled it down the front of his own Armani shirt.

"Oh dear," he said, and stood up. "I'm so sorry, I'll just be a minute…." And Adam hurried to the bathroom and then out the back door, abandoning his coat and any chance of doing business with Shaw.

He spotted Kris hanging out at Nikko's Café across the street Wednesday morning. Or rather, Kris spotted _him_ , flagging him down as Adam exited his condo building. Adam froze at seeing Kris waving to him from one of the outdoor tables. If Kris thought Adam was going to go over there and _join him_ —

Kris pointed to Adam's left, drawing his attention to the people waiting at the intersection at the north end of the block. Adam zeroed in on a young man with white ear buds in his ears, looking completely engrossed in his iPhone. Something about his posture set him apart from the small group. Adam hesitated, torn between going back inside, getting in a cab headed downtown, or….

Curiosity got the better of him, and he decided to test Kris's tip—if that's what it even was—just to find out what kind of game he was trying to run on Adam. Was this some kind of jurisdictional dispute, or was Kris deliberately trying to drive Adam crazy?

Adam walked north and joined the pedestrians waiting to cross East 67th Street. He sidled closer to the young guy, hoping to get a surprised reaction when he tapped on the agent's shoulder.

Adam was concentrating so hard on the guy that he accidentally bumped into a woman in a cerise spandex track suit, jogging in place. She turned around, met Adam's eyes, and he read the recognition and panic plain on her face before she spooked and sprinted south instead of crossing north.

Adam glared after her and then shot Kris a suspicious look. Kris nodded back at him, smiling like he'd just done Adam a favor. As though Adam should be _thrilled_ with more proof that government agents were literally everywhere, waiting and watching for him to slip up. Adam scowled and hailed a cab so he could go about his _legitimate_ business.

  


The sun was setting over SoHo while Adam made the formal introductions at Valadez's studio that Wednesday.

Ralph Fleischmann drifted around the studio, blinking confusedly at each of the pieces on the walls while his wife and Miguel got down to business. Adam looked on proudly as Miguel charmed her. It wasn't the art Miguel had to sell Mrs. Fleischmann, but the pleasure of knowing the _artist_ , of having bragging rights to his intimate acquaintance. The man really was a natural at playing the mysterious, aloof _artiste_. Miguel caught Stella's attention with an arched eyebrow, a hint of a sneer, and a few blatant glances at her mature—but fastidiously maintained—figure.

Stella appeared intrigued.

She lead Miguel over to another painting in the show room, one Adam hadn't shown her in advance. It wouldn't work in her collection, thematically or visually; the silhouette of a horse drinking against a backdrop of yellow and green clouds shouldn't have rated more than a passing glance from Stella. Adam tapped his lips and watched, suspicious of this unexpected shift in her tastes.

"I've already sold this piece," Miguel told her.

"No," she said, her family's patented steel in her voice. "You haven't. Call and cancel, until I make up my mind."

Miguel shot a look Adam's way and took a deep breath. "I can't do that. I'm a man of my word."

"Hmm," Stella said, tapping a Donna Karan heel. "Then I suppose you'll offer to make me a copy."

"Of course not," Miguel said stiffly. "I don't duplicate. I can only create when I am inspired."

Stella's foot stopped tapping and she leaned an inch away from the painting, closer toward Miguel. "Have I offended you?" she asked, her eyes brighter, more interested.

"Not at all," he said, taking her elbow and guiding her toward the sunburst collage. "I can only offer you what you see today…and my future visions."

Adam beamed as Miguel scored another point, managing Stella's bid for control. It looked like a sure bet Stella would buy the three pieces Adam had preselected. Miguel might even sell her a few others tonight on the strength of his personality. Adam rubbed his hands together, proud to have made an ideal match for both Stella and Miguel, at least for the next year.

Adam had been frank with Miguel over lunch, explaining the fickle, fleeting nature of these relationships. Stella changed her art fads more often than she changed husbands—and Ralph looked due for a trade-in in another two years. But her patronage in the coming months would get Miguel a foot in the door and get him noticed by other collectors. (And Adam would get some lovely commissions before he guided Stella's wandering eye back toward the pricier collectibles.)

It looked like Miguel had things under control, so Adam took a break and stepped out on the street to make a phone call. For the first time in a week, something was going _well_ , and he was in the mood to celebrate. If Brad could ditch Justin for a night, they could go dancing like they used to….

It wasn't actually a surprise when Kris cleared his throat.

Adam turned his head and found Kris leaning against the side of the shop, only a few feet from where Adam stood. He didn't panic. He was in control this time; he wouldn't make a fool of himself over Kris again. "What're you doing here?" Adam asked flatly.

"I'm watching your back."

"I don't want you watching me _at all_. I told you I never wanna see you again."

Kris looked stricken but didn't argue the point. "The FBI is tailing you now. They haven't gotten anything from the condo surveillance, so they're following you—"

"Yeah, I figured that part out already."

"I'm not gonna stand by and let them catch you."

"So you're running interference for me?" That seemed to be the story Kris was trying to spin; it supported Kris's claim that he'd quit the Bureau, at any rate. But Adam wasn't that gullible. "Or maybe you're trying to keep this collar for yourself. A little rivalry among agents?"

"I'm trying to _stop_ the surveillance," Kris said.

" _Why_?" he asked bluntly, giving Kris a chance to come clean once and for all.

"Because I love you."

It hit like a sucker punch and knocked the breath clean out of him. Kris was staring at him, all wide-eyed earnestness, and there was something clawing its way up Adam's throat, trying to get out. Adam set it free—a thin, bitter laugh that shocked Kris into falling back a step.

Adam retreated into the gallery and locked the door behind him with shaking hands. Mr. Fleischmann cleared his throat to get his attention, but Adam couldn't do it, couldn't pull himself together that fast. He kept his head down and excused himself to the bathroom.


	3. Chapter 3

  


Brad was pacing the living room and screaming into a phone, "This is the last time I ever work with you, you _asshole_!" when Adam finally got home.

Adam waited, thin-lipped and impatient, still agitated by Kris's unwelcome declaration. "I'm opening the Clos Du Val cabernet; you want some?" he offered once Brad hung up, because screw dancing; Adam needed to _forget_ , and it sounded like Brad did, too.

Brad shook his head. "I'm in no mood to enjoy it. Do you know where Emilio is?"

"Am I supposed to care?" he asked, unable to keep the spitefulness from his voice.

"He's in fucking _Venice_. Shacked up with some Countess or Duchess or whatever. He says it's the best sex he's ever had, and he's giving up the life for her."

"Oh? … _oh_ ," Adam said, seeing the problem almost immediately.

"Yeah. So he's not coming back to finish the con, and I've got Justin all primed for the big payoff. I've been talking up my possessive, dangerous ex-boyfriend for _weeks_. How the hell is this supposed to work with no Emilio to scare Justin into paying?"

Adam smirked with petty satisfaction. He'd always hated the man, always been jealous of Emilio and Brad's long-running partnership. "I don't know, babe," he said. "It's just terrible."

"Don't play me, Adam," Brad huffed. "I can tell you're gloating."

Adam shrugged and settled onto the leather couch. "Me? Never."

"Shit. We were gonna do this at his family's place in the Hamptons this weekend. Where'm I gonna find a new Emilio in three days?"

"Lou's ex is back in town…."

"Ugh, he's way too straight. Justin would _never_ believe I used to date him."

"Then…I don't know. None of your little friends can help? Oh…that's right: they're too _little_ ," Adam said, rubbing it in. After the day he'd had, it felt too good to resist.

"… _You're_ not little," Brad said speculatively.

Adam's bruised heart stopped beating for four seconds. "No."

Brad slinked over to the couch and knelt next to him. "Adam, baby—"

" _No_."

"Come on! You're tall—way taller than Justin. He'd never try to fight you—"

"No way in hell," Adam said, his voice cracking. "Find somebody else."

"Adam," Brad said, his voice dropping into a cajoling whisper. A delicate hand slid along the back of the couch, coming up to tease the hairs at the back of Adam's neck, and another hand fell on Adam's thigh, achingly familiar. "Don't be like that. C'mon, just this once? As a favor for me?"

Adam couldn't move, paralyzed as that hand slid higher, and Brad leaned in to whisper in his ear, "It'll be so easy; it'll only take a few hours. You'll be so good at it, babe. And I'll give you his cut, 70/30, the same deal I gave Emilio."

Adam wanted to turn his head and take Brad's lips, coax that hand up to his cock and tell Brad how much he loved him, but the thought tasted like ashes and burned like dry ice, and his mind rebelled.

"Keep your fucking hands off me," Adam snarled, shoving Brad onto his back on the couch. He stood up and glared down at his ex-boyfriend. "Why don't you try asking somebody you _haven't_ fucked and fucked-over yet? Oh wait, that rules out everyone you know, doesn't it?"

Brad's face paled.

Adam grimaced and turned on his heel, grabbed the bottle of Glenmorangie from the kitchen, and slammed his bedroom door behind him.

  


By Thursday afternoon, Adam had finished the scotch and switched to gin. Brad wrinkled his nose disapprovingly when Adam grabbed the Bombay Sapphire, but didn't try to stop him. So Adam let Brad join him in his bed, Brad's back propped against the headboard and Adam's head pillowed in his lap, sprawled out like Kolle's _Dying Torero_. It was an apt metaphor, he mused—stabbed through the heart and bleeding out slowly.

He let Brad talk, a steady stream of self-recriminations and apologies for opening old wounds. Adam ignored them all. He'd listened to Brad too much already.

He'd listened when they met on the L.A. black market scene, and maybe that was where everything had _really_ gone wrong for him. Because Adam had fallen _hard_ for Brad, for his sinfully pretty face and clever tongue, and for all the things he'd said he saw in Adam: talent, beauty, and someone capable of bigger deals than a glorified back alley pawn shop. Worst of all, Brad had said he loved Adam…but Brad didn't know the meaning of the word. To Brad, love was a feeling that welled up in his chest and had to be shared with whomever inspired it. Like his heart was overflowing, and he couldn't limit it to only one person.

Adam had listened and believed him. He'd built his reputation and fortune on a series of risky-but-successful sales while trying to live with an open relationship so Brad could share his too-much-love with multiple partners. He'd endured the sleepless nights when Brad didn't come home, the sight of other lovers' marks—Emilio's and countless others'—on his boyfriend's skin, each one making his professional successes ring hollow. He'd endured for two painful, faithful years, choking on his jealousy until he _couldn't_ anymore.

The breakup had been fast and one-sided. Adam hadn't begged or given an ultimatum—he'd just given up and cut Brad off. Looking back, it was staggering how easily they'd transitioned from lovers to friends, as though Brad hadn't even noticed the difference. Adam loved Brad too much to walk away; he would do _anything_ to keep Brad in his life, as a friend and business partner if he couldn't have him as his boyfriend. And if Brad saw the way Adam ached with each new lover Brad took, he knew better than to bring it up or bring them home.

So for Brad to ask _that_ of him—to touch him like a lover and use him like a _mark_ —and then come crawling, looking for forgiveness....

No.

Brad wasn't after anything—certainly not forgiveness. He was bestowing comfort and pity on his pathetic ex-boyfriend. In that moment, Adam hated them both; hated himself for needing the former, and Brad for offering the latter.

And he couldn't forgive either of them.

  


On Friday afternoon, with two empty bottles kicked under the bed, Brad placed himself in front of the liquor cabinet and folded his arms across his chest.

"Adam, stop it."

"Fuck you," Adam said and steadied himself on the back of a kitchen chair.

"I gave you a couple days, okay? But it's time for you to grow up and start coping."

" _Fuck you_ ," Adam repeated, because the words tasted as good as the lingering traces of gin. "Don't you have another guy to screw over?"

"I was _supposed_ to be in the Hamptons with Justin, but I told him I had to stay in town this weekend; some asshole'd broken my best friend's heart, and he needed me to look after him." Brad stared him down, refusing to budge when Adam gave him a weak shove.

" _You're_ an asshole," Adam informed him.

"That's what I just _said_ ," Brad agreed. "And whether you want my help or not, I'm not letting you fuck up your one legitimate line of business because of my 'faithless dick.'"

That sounded familiar. "Did I say that?"

"Pure Lambert poetry."

"Good. 'Cause that's what you are."

"Seriously, _shut up_ and pay attention. You've forgotten the Wilkstone Gala is tonight, haven't you?"

"Go fuck…. Oh shit." Two of Adam's clients and a roomful of prospective clients would be in attendance. This was the networking opportunity of the season; there was _no way_ he could miss it. He gaped at Brad, panic starting to seep through the ounces and ounces of alcohol.

"Exactly. Shower, now. And take this with you." Brad pushed a bottle of cold water into his hand and turned Adam around by the shoulders.

Adam stumbled toward his bedroom.

"If you need an extra hand in the shower, give me a shout," Brad called after him.

"Fuck you!" Adam yelled back, and walked into the doorframe.

He came out of his bedroom two hours later, somewhat sober but immaculate in his dark grey bespoke suit, the invitation tucked in his inside pocket. Brad was waiting in the living room, dressed in a three-piece Brioni and fabulous Ferragamo shoes.

"Going somewhere?" Adam asked sweetly, just to piss Brad off.

Brad rolled his eyes. "I'm not sending you to that gala by yourself. Come on, we'll miss the hot hors d'oeuvres."

"You actually think you're gonna be my plus one tonight?" Adam scoffed, walking past Brad to the front door. "I'd rather take _Justin_ than you." Brad flinched, and Adam slammed the door on his way out.

He skipped the hassle of a car service and hopped in a cab, ignoring the two men in the sedan that pulled out to follow him. He was buzzed, angry, and still hurting from Brad's proposition; he didn't have the emotional capacity to care about the FBI tonight. But thirty minutes after he got to the party, a high-pitched giggle caught his attention, and he looked up to see Brad on Lou's arm, smiling and chatting with another art dealer.

Brad met his eyes and frowned, looking concerned. Adam finished schmoozing with Mr. and Mrs. Wilkstone and headed for the bar.

Lou drifted over to join him, her silver Rodarte draped dress sweeping across the marble floor, and he ordered her a martini before she had to ask.

She thanked him and said, raising the glass for a sip, "Brad says he's in the doghouse tonight."

"Try for the next _week_ ," Adam said. "Hey, you owe me from that time with the ivory vanity set, right?"

"Yeah?" she said suspiciously. "What do you need?"

"Keep Brad away from me tonight."

Her eyebrows flew up. "Wow. You're having some crappy luck with men lately, huh?"

Adam ignored that and ordered another drink.

An hour later he was on his second or sixth glass of champagne, seducing a rising Russian fashion designer named Alexander something and having a _fantastic_ time, thank you very much, Brad.

"I want you to model for me," Alexander was saying.

Adam giggled, the champagne bubbles making him feel lighter than air.

Alexander leaned close, breath hot on Adam's ear as he said, "Not just in my studio—in my Fashion Week show next September. I want to sew you into the tightest jeans you've ever worn, send you down my runway with the whole world looking at you: your face, your ass. They're both so gorgeous; you'll be my muse. I want to design my next collection around you. The blue of your eyes, your pale skin, those legs…. Adam, you _inspire_ me."

Adam giggled again, because the very thought of him inspiring anyone was ridiculous, preposterous. And anyway, he knew better; by tomorrow, those promises would be forgotten. But Alexander had blond hair and tanned skin, almond-shaped eyes and white teeth in a narrow face. He was the handsomest man in the room, and all he wanted was Adam; Adam couldn't help responding to that, reveling in it. He lived and died on such compliments, and he needed them more tonight than he had in weeks, so he was happy to ignore the lies.

Adam let Alexander keep a hand tight on his wrist, trapping him at the bar—as if Adam could possibly turn his back on the sweet words spilling from Alexander's lips. He sipped the champagne and let Alexander covet him for a little longer, drawing out the moments before Adam would agree to go home with him.

"Take a walk," somebody said rudely, tugging on Alexander's arm, which jostled his grip on Adam's wrist, and Adam's happy daze evaporated.

He blinked his eyes and focused on the man standing in front of them—a short, angry man, with chocolate brown eyes and a far-too familiar face.

And it wasn't Brad.

Adam felt unexpectedly betrayed. This was supposed to be a safe place—private, invitation-only, no crashers admitted without waving a badge. Yet there Kris stood, in what appeared to be a Zegna suit—which should have been _way_ beyond his salary—with a hand fisted in Alexander's beautiful sleeve.

"Hey," Alexander protested, knocking Kris's hand away with a disdainful sneer. "Let go, small man. You have no right to touch me."

"He's mine," Kris said, his gaze intense, hands in fists at his side. "Adam's mine."

"No, he isn't," Alexander said, at the same time Adam said, "No, I'm not."

"You see?" Alexander said. "You're embarrassing yourself. Leave, before you cause a scene."

"I'll show you a scene," Kris said, a dangerous look appearing in his eyes, and out of nowhere he punched Alexander right on the chin.

Alexander fell back against the bar, releasing Adam's wrist for the first time all night, and Adam gaped as Kris squared off for another blow. "What the hell!" Adam protested. "Stop it!"

Alexander growled something Russian-sounding and pushed off the bar, coming at Kris with a fast punch of his own. But Kris took a step back, grabbed Alexander's arm, and used it to throw him to the floor, hard.

"Kris, stop it!" Adam shouted.

Alexander rolled and kicked, catching Kris's knee and making him stagger before Kris grabbed the fashion designer by the lapel, dragged him across the polished floor, and punched him again. And then men were pulling them apart, some of the guests helping Alexander up, others pushing Kris toward the bar, toward Adam.

Kris caught Adam's hand and yanked, pulling him away from the mortifying scene.

The room blurred for a moment as Adam staggered after Kris, trying to go the opposite direction without being pulled off-balance. "Let me go, you dick! Let go!"

Kris didn't stop—didn't even look at Adam until he'd gotten them out on the rooftop terrace, and then Kris backed Adam against the railing overlooking Central Park and said, "You're _mine_."

It was so ludicrous Adam had to laugh.

"You _are_ ," Kris insisted, crowding against him, trying to force his conviction on Adam through osmosis.

And that shouldn't have been a turn on, not after Kris had ruined his perfect evening. But the way Kris's eyes were flashing, and the way he'd taken down a man more than a foot taller than him with only two punches…Adam couldn't help feeling a little breathless.

"You won't sleep with anyone else. I swear, I'll— I'm not gonna let you forget me."

Adam tried to push him away. "Jesus Christ, I fucked you once, and you won't fucking let it go. There is _nothing_ between us."

That wasn't exactly true, Adam realized as Kris pressed closer, because Kris's hand was between them, gripping hard on Adam's wrist where Alexander had held him before. And Kris's thigh between his legs—that was definitely between them. And as Kris pulled Adam's head down, there was only the space for two breaths between them, then only one, and then none at all.

It was dizzying, having Kris's lips on him again. Adam gasped for air, his head spinning from the alcohol and adrenaline, from Kris's teeth on his lower lip, and it was so, so good. Adam's hands stopped pushing and grabbed Kris, pulling him in tight. He rode his cock on Kris's thigh and got a hand on the back of Kris's neck, squeezing to let Kris know who was in charge. Kris gave in, let go of Adam's wrist and just held on as Adam gave him what he wanted.

He had Kris's jacket off and was working on the buttons of Kris's shirt when Kris panted, "Adam, Adam, stop, please."

Adam squeezed him brutally tight and then eased off, blinking in confusion. "You don't—"

"Home, okay? Let me take you home. _Please_."

Adam tried to think straight, but he was distracted by the scent of Kris's aftershave, the rough stubble under Adam's lips. Situational awareness slowly filtered in. They were on the terrace, glass walls and sheer drapes all that separated them from the party inside, and…he was _this close_ to having sex in public again, fuck.

"God, they would've seen…" Adam mumbled, awed by the close call.

"I wouldn't let that happen," Kris said.

"You're so good to me," Adam sighed, gratitude welling up as Kris saved him from disgrace in front of his clients and peers.

"I will be, I promise," Kris said, shrugging his jacket back on and cupping Adam's cheek for a moment. Kris threaded their fingers together, and Adam kissed him one more time before letting Kris lead him back into the party and to the elevators. If people looked at them, Adam didn't even notice, too mesmerized by Kris's ass in those fine, fine, form-fitting Zegna slacks.

Adam didn't remember much of the cab ride beyond street lights strobing past the windows, Kris on his lap, warm lips and roving hands, and Kris's ass shifting over his hard cock. The last glass of champagne hit sometime during the ride, and he went with it, enjoying the floaty feeling even as Kris's touch and body weighed him down. It seemed to go on forever, a maddening tease as they rushed through the night, and when they tumbled out of the cab at the end of it, Adam was surprised to realize it _had_ taken forever.

"Your place," Adam said, squinting up at the red-brick apartment building. Why the hell had they come all the way to Brooklyn?

"Yeah," Kris said, and took Adam's hand again to tug him into the small, dirty lobby and its small, dirty lift.

"I know where you live," Adam mumbled.

"Yeah, here," Kris said, starting to unbutton Adam's shirt as the elevator slid slowly upward.

"No, I…I had a photo of this place."

Kris looked up at him and smiled so brightly Adam had to kiss him again.

Brad's photo had only been of the outside of the building, so Adam had overestimated the size of the apartment itself. "How do you _live_ here," he giggled, leaning heavily on Kris as they stepped into the closet-sized apartment.

"I don't wanna talk right now," Kris said sternly, and Adam laughed some more and pushed Kris down on the twin bed so he could fall on top of him.

They writhed together, hips thrusting and hands pulling at clothing. It was fantastic—mind-blowing, even—until Adam got the best idea of his life. "I'm gonna fuck you," he said.

"Okay, yeah," Kris panted.

"Naked," Adam prompted him, and lost a chunk of time between getting up and standing naked on a pile of clothing, expensive silk and wool tailoring crumpled under their feet.

"How do you want me?" Kris asked, something strange about his tone as he looked at the bed with wide eyes.

He was so gorgeous, shoulders just like Adam had imagined, muscles standing out in sharp relief as though sculpted in marble. If Kris had been a sculpture in a museum, Adam would have taken up drawing just to sit in front of him for hours, tracing that body.

But Kris was real, warm skin instead of cold marble, and Adam couldn't wait to touch. He slid his hands over Kris's chest and up to those shoulders, bending down to kiss and bite at one. Kris moaned and held still for it. He let Adam circle and admire him, Adam's fingers and lips darting in to trace a shadowed patch of skin or to play along a line of muscle. And his ass, god, those pants hadn't lied, it was really that round and squeezable. Adam squeezed with both hands, and Kris moaned, looking over his shoulder at Adam, his eyes nearly black in the overhead fluorescent light.

"You're perfect," Adam decided after he'd finished caressing Kris's thighs and returned to kiss his lips.

Kris leaned against him and shivered, clearly willing to let Adam do anything he wanted. And _oh_ , how Adam wanted.

"Do you have stuff?"

"Yeah," Kris said, turning to fumble his dresser drawer open. He turned around with lube and a strip of condoms, an eager blush on his cheeks.

"On your stomach," Adam said, ushering him to the bed.

Kris threw himself down on the narrow mattress, burying his face in the lone pillow, and that was just so ridiculous.

"Next time we're doing this in my bed," Adam announced, kneeling unsteadily between Kris's thighs and slipping a slick finger into his tight hole.

Kris shivered again, rolling his hips encouragingly, so Adam pushed in with a second. He got lost in the feel of him, so hot and velvety tight around his fingers, and drifted for a time. When he blinked his eyes open once more, his own cock was weeping for release, and Kris was groaning, a steady litany of "oh" and "please" coming from the pillow as three of Adam's fingers thrust into him.

"I'm gonna fuck you so good, honey," Adam mumbled, licking up Kris's spine and kissing the muscles over his shoulder blade. "You're not gonna walk straight for a week."

"God, Adam, do it," Kris begged, rocking his hips back on Adam's fingers. "I want you so much. Wanna feel you inside me. _Please_."

"Yeah," Adam groaned. He tried to pick up the condom twice and missed both times.

Kris twisted under him to take the packet and unwrap it, then reached back and rolled the condom onto Adam's cock, fingers shaking and eyes black with desire.

"Fuck," Adam swore and urged Kris up on his knees.

Kris's forehead was still on the pillow, but his face was turned toward the side, and Adam could see him biting his lip, his whole body shaking with need.

"Shh, I'm here, honey. Open up for me," and he pushed forward, his cock rocking against the ring of muscle and pressing, pressing, until he slid in.

Kris gasped and whimpered, high-pitched and broken, and Adam held his hips and pushed in further, until his balls were nestled up against Kris's, and they were skin to skin.

"Fuck yeah," Adam panted, trying to catch his breath. His pulse was pounding in his temples, making it hard to balance on the mattress. He held onto Kris for support and thrust, out and in, and the bed squeaked under them.

"Oh my god," Kris said, his forehead rolling back and forth across the pillow as Adam did it again, slow and almost-steady. "Come on, I can take it."

So Adam did, his fingers digging into Kris's hips, bolts of pleasure racing up his spine like lightning as his cock slammed forward, chasing his orgasm in Kris's tight, hot embrace.

"I'm gonna, oh, Adam, I'm gonna," Kris gasped, and Adam realized Kris was jacking his own cock, hand working furiously as his ass clenched around Adam's cock.

"Do it," Adam ordered, thrusting faster, giving up on any kind of rhythm just so it got both of them there. Kris groaned and collapsed, gasping for breath. His muscles clenched spasmodically around Adam's length, maddening, sweet friction as he pushed in again, once more, until Adam was overwhelmed and falling, too.

Kris's back was slick with sweat, the smell of them both mingled where Adam's nose was buried in Kris's hair. He never wanted to leave that spot. But when Kris moved under him, pushing him off, Adam pulled out and fumbled the condom off, tossed it onto the bedside table for lack of a better place to put it. Kris turned on his side, making room for Adam on the mattress. Grateful, Adam threw an arm over Kris's side and laid his head on the pillow. Kris was kissing his neck, the room was spinning happily around him, and he closed his eyes and let it whirl him away.

  


Metal clinked softly against metal, jingling keys scraping across raw nerves, and Adam blinked his eyes open to squint balefully at the sound.

Light pierced the narrow window, and he groaned. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to get his bearings beyond "in bed," because someone was holding keys, and there were footsteps coming toward him.

A soothing hand touched his cheek, lips settled on his, and Adam sighed with pleasure as a tongue slid into his mouth, tasting of toothpaste. He kissed back leisurely, taking his time waking up so the hangover wouldn't start pounding.

Those delicious lips finally pulled back, and Adam risked opening his eyes so he could see Kris's smiling face hovering over his. Adam smiled back and reached out a hand to pull him down again.

"Nuh uh," Kris said, catching Adam's hand and folding it back on the sheets. "I have to go get us some breakfast. Don't worry, I'll be right back with your quadruple caramel non-fat macchiato." Kris gave him another smile, pecked Adam's unresponsive lips, and headed out the door, whistling.

Adam lay frozen in Kris's bed, his skin crawling as he remembered how all this had started: with a spilled cup of coffee…and Kris not bothering to ask what he'd ordered. That hadn't been a chance meeting. Of course not; Kris had been tailing him from the beginning, figuring out a way to use him, to get access to his condo….

Adam blinked and sat up, looking around.

He was in Kris's little apartment. Kris had taken him _home_ , meaning Kris's place, not Adam's condo. Why? It would've been the perfect opportunity for Kris to search the place with Adam passed out for hours. The headache kicked in without warning, the vengeful ghosts of scotch, gin, and champagne screeching bloody murder in his ears, but Adam forced himself up, telling his body to keep it together long enough to escape. There was no way he was gonna still be lying naked in Kris's bed when Kris got back. Hell no. He took a step toward the bathroom and almost tripped over the tangle of jackets and dress-shirts on the carpet.

Fuck. What was it about Kris that ruined so many of Adam's clothes?

What was it about Kris, _period_? What the hell did he want from Adam…besides Adam's cock; Adam couldn't remember last night very clearly, but he was sure there'd been a lot of begging.

The clock was ticking. He had no clue how far Kris would have to go to find a place that served macchiatos, but he wasn't going to wait around to find out. Adam started grabbing up clothes and caught a price tag that fluttered loose from Kris's jacket pocket. He blinked at it, looked at the jacket suspiciously, and then tossed both into the corner behind the bed.

Catching his warped reflection in the steel elevator doors on his way down, Adam had a sudden recollection of _last_ Saturday's walk of shame. Thank god Kris had gotten him out of the gala before he'd made a spectacle of himself. But some damage had definitely been done; two men fighting over him in front of clients was not the classiest business move. Just before the elevator doors opened, Adam's head throbbed even harder with the humiliating thought that _he_ might actually make it onto _Page Six_ before _Brad_.

Adam was reaching for the dingy lobby doors when he spotted two men in crisp Wall Street suits walking across the street toward Kris's building. He couldn't make out their faces, but he recognized their type from Brad's surveillance photos. FBI.

He swore and frantically looked around the lobby for a place to hide. Luck was with him; he found an unlocked door to the stairwell. He left it cracked so he could listen as the Feds entered the lobby.

He held his breath as he waited, hoping they wouldn't hear the roaring of his pulse through the door. The men didn't say anything, just stepped into the elevator and headed up…to Kris's apartment? Almost definitely. And who did they expect to find up there—Kris? _Adam_? Kris could have set him up and cleared the scene so the Feds could move in for the….

 _No_. Adam had looked into Kris's eyes last night, touched him and made him beg. Despite the lack of evidence to back it up, Adam just _couldn't_ believe Kris would set him up now.

As soon as the coast was clear, Adam ran out the door and hailed a cab home.

  


"Look what the cat dragged in," Brad drawled.

"Hey, Brad," Adam sighed, slumping onto the couch next to him.

"Oh, are you speaking to me again?"

God, his thing with Brad was so old news compared to what was on his mind this morning. He rubbed his fingers over the throbbing nerves in his forehead and said, "Yeah, I forgive you."

"You look _terrible_. Did you even look in a mirror before kissing your blond friend goodbye?"

If Adam had had any iota of pride left after that painfully-pothole-ridden drive, it would've curled up in a corner and died. He didn't even try to rub the makeup off or straighten the wrinkles in his suit. There was no point trying to cover up anything this time. "Who?" he asked.

"That guy you were all over last night."

Right, Alexander something. Adam tried to remember what the designer had looked like, or even just the rest of his name, but his memory of that part of the evening was pretty foggy. Holy _fuck_ he'd been wasted.

"I couldn't find you," Brad frowned at him. "I looked everywhere so I could warn you; your FBI stalker showed up at the gala. Good thing you'd already left."

"Yeah, um," Adam said, "I need your help with that. With him."

Brad smiled. "I'll always help. Anything you need, consider it done."

Steeling himself, Adam blurted, "I…Ihadsexwithhim. Um. Twice." His cheeks flamed as he waited for Brad to decipher his words, and when Brad's eyes started to pop out of his head, Adam buried his face in his hands.

"You fucked the Fed?" Brad said, enunciating clear and slow.

Adam nodded.

" _Twice_?"

He nodded again.

"When? Last night, clearly…."

"Last week. At John Varvatos."

"At…. _At_ John Varvatos?" Brad whistled. "Jesus, babe. I know he's cute but…are you _trying_ to get arrested?"

"Okay, see," Adam said, grabbing onto Brad's segue so they could skip over the public-sex part, " _that's_ where I need your help. Kris says he quit."

Brad snorted.

"Yeah," Adam agreed. "I thought he was just trying to get an invitation back here. But last night we went to _his_ place. He could've had _hours_ to search this place last night, but he didn't. So I mean…if he isn't trying to get in here, why's he coming on to me? Is he a Fed or not?"

"What's it even matter? Just use a little self-control, stop fucking him, and you'll be safe!"

"It's important," Adam snapped. "I _need_ to know what this means."

"Adam," Brad said, a disapproving frown on his pretty lips. "You know this isn't a good idea."

Adam stood up and flailed his hands. " _Obviously_ it's a bad idea. But given my track record, odds are good I'm gonna end up fucking him again at some point. So could you maybe spare an hour and make some goddamn phone calls so I'll know who I'm fucking?"

"He's really gotten to you, hasn't he?" Brad asked, the concern plain in his voice.

Adam slumped against the wall. "He said he loves me," Adam said, surprising himself with the confession.

"Lots of guys tell you that," Brad pointed out. His face held a follow-up question that Adam couldn't answer.

"I know," Adam admitted, feeling lost. He couldn't even explain it to himself, why he'd held onto Kris's words from Wednesday. How could he possibly explain it to Brad?

Brad watched him silently for a minute and then stood up. "Alright, I'll see what I can find out. Now do us both a favor and clean yourself up. It's freaking me out seeing you like this."

"Thanks," Adam said gratefully, and headed for his bedroom.

He was almost through the door when Brad called, "I'll bring back coffee. You want a caramel macchiato?"

Adam stopped in the doorway, banged his aching forehead against the frame, and groaned, "Fuck no, anything but that."

  


The doorbell rang while Adam was typing up a coded response to a dealer in Israel with a line on a Klimt that had been bouncing around the black market for years.

"Could you get that?" Adam called, but Brad was already opening the front door.

"Oh, _hi_!" Brad said, and then, "Adam, it's for you!"

Adam paused mid-spell-check to join Brad at the front door.

An ex-FBI agent was standing in the hallway.

Adam shot Brad a dirty look for setting him up. Brad shrugged and stayed right where he was, looking back and forth between the two of them with an interested tilt to his eyebrows.

Kris was shifting nervously on the doormat, staring at Adam with his bottom lip trapped between his teeth. A sense memory from last night hit Adam—biting that lip himself, Kris's taste and moans—and Adam's eyes dropped to the bruise he'd sucked on Kris's neck. He couldn't help the hot rush of satisfaction that it was so visible, high above the collar of his jacket.

"I was worried about you," Kris said softly. "They didn't bother you, did they?"

Adam blinked and focused on his words instead of his skin. "The agents at your place this—"

"For god's sake, Adam," Brad interrupted. "Kris, won't you come in?"

Adam glared at Brad again, but Kris slid past him into the condo, looking around eagerly.

Adam kept one eye on Kris and hissed at Brad, "What are you _doing_? It isn't _clean_ —"

"So take him out on the balcony, and I'll take care of it. Relax, Adam, I have a plan." Brad gave Adam his well-rehearsed 'trust me' smile.

Adam rolled his eyes. "This plan doesn't involve me fucking him 'til he goes away, does it? 'Cause I'm pretty sure you thought that was a _bad idea_."

"Funny. Just keep him outside for a few minutes, _don't_ scare him away, and I'll come get you when it's clear."

Adam took a deep breath, held back some choice insults, and relented. "Hey, Kris," he called, stopping Kris just before he got too close to Adam's computer screen. "Come outside with me." He tipped his head toward the balcony, and Kris smiled.

"Okay."

Brad shooed them out with an infuriating "You kids play nice" and locked the door behind them, trapping Adam on the 6th floor balcony with Kris.

"I'm so sorry," Kris said once they were alone, earnest and reaching for Adam's hand.

Adam dodged and sat in one of the two chairs, pointing Kris to the other so Adam could keep the table between them. But Kris grabbed the chair and dragged it around the side of the small metal table to sit right beside Adam.

Adam suppressed a shiver as a chill breeze whipped around the side of the building. He should've grabbed a coat before coming out here. Kris looked so warm in his leather jacket. Warm and delicious—

"I'm sorry. I didn't know they were gonna come looking for me," Kris continued. "I never would've put you in that situation…god, did they do anything? Threaten you?"

Adam kept his hands folded in his lap for warmth, safely away from Kris's strong, warm fingers, and shook his head. "I was already leaving. We passed in the lobby. They didn't see me."

Kris took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Thank goodness. They must've thought I was crazy when I kept asking what they'd done with you."

That probably wasn't the only reason they'd thought he was crazy, Adam thought. Throwing away a career in law enforcement to trail after a criminal like a love-sick puppy was another good one. Adam glanced through the French double doors and spotted a short streak of movement dashing across the living room. "So," he stalled. "What'd they want? I mean, you don't work for them anymore…."

Kris shrugged. "They don't like what I've been doing: following you, screwing up their surveillance. They tried to tell me to stop." He gave a small laugh. "Can you imagine?"

"Yeah, telling you to stop hasn't worked for me, either," Adam agreed ruefully.

Kris leaned closer, and Adam caught the scent of his aftershave, spicy and enticing. "I told them I'd made my decision. I knew what I was doing and I wasn't gonna stop."

"Of course not," Adam said faintly, feeling off-balance. He pulled his arms tighter around his chest as the wind cut through his chunky-knit Laneus cardigan.

"You're cold," Kris said, already sliding off his jacket. "Do you want my—"

"Don't," Adam said, putting a hand out to stop him.

He wanted to reach out and drag Kris into his lap again, kiss him and rub up against his warm thighs. But there were still too many questions to resolve before he could let that happen again. Brad had confirmed this morning that Kris had quit the Bureau, but Adam wasn't sure he wanted answers to the rest, and this tug of war between his brain and his body was exhausting.

Adam wavered briefly when Kris's smile faded, but he held his ground. "Just sit there. Okay?" He hadn't meant for it to sound pleading.

Kris looked down, staring at the distance between them like it was a physical barrier he didn't know how to get over.

Adam stewed in his guilt and bit his tongue.

Brad finally let them inside after three minutes of frigid silence. "Adam, your lips are blue," he chided. "You didn't take a coat? It's _November_." Brad gave Kris a friendly smile. "He always needs someone to take care of him."

Kris shrugged and stood in the middle of the living room, watching them nervously. Adam ignored Brad's taunt and gave the condo a quick once over—it didn't look like Brad had missed anything incriminating.

"We haven't been introduced," Brad said, still forcefully bright. "I'm sure you already know _everything_ about me, but it's so much more polite to start with an introduction. I'm Bradley Bell." He held his hand out, and Kris reluctantly shook it.

"Kris Allen."

"Charmed. Why don't we sit down?" Brad ushered them to the leather couches and pushed Kris down on one sofa before pulling Adam down on the opposite one and pressing close to Adam's side.

Kris looked twitchy, watching them from across the coffee table.

"So?" Brad asked. "How do you know Adam?"

Kris shot Adam an incredulous look, but Brad didn't wait for a response.

"Adam and _I_ go way back. Los Angeles, years ago. We knew the same people, went to the same clubs; it was inevitable we'd hook up. Destined, even." He was overselling it, a dreamy note in his voice and a nostalgic smile on his face, and Adam narrowed his eyes, trying to guess his game. Brad continued, "We were lovers for _years_ ," and he boosted himself up to drape an arm around Adam's shoulders.

"I guess you could call me the love of his life," Brad said, and Adam nearly shoved him off the couch. They'd just spent the last few days establishing that Adam's feelings for Brad were still strictly off limits—he did not need Brad bringing them up again. Least of all in front of someone as seemingly unstable as Kris.

Kris's face was stony, and Adam spotted the fists balled in his lap. He felt suddenly torn; he should really warn Brad how dangerous Kris could be with those hands, but he kind of wanted to watch his ex get knocked on his ass, too. __

 __"You probably read all about our relationship in our files, right? Anyway, I just thought it'd be polite to be up front about it." The sweetness faded from Brad's voice as he finished: "Because if you think for one second you're getting a free shot at Adam here, you are _so_ wrong. I'm not letting you anywhere near him without making damn sure of you. If you want a chance with him, you're gonna have to get past _me_ first."

Adam blinked at Brad, mouth hanging open with astonishment. Brad was a great actor, but after years together Adam had gotten good at telling his lies from his truths. Right now, however, Adam couldn't tell if Brad was acting or not. It was deeply disturbing.

Kris was wound tighter than a spring. "What do you want?" he asked, eyeing Brad warily.

"I wanna know _everything_ ," Brad said, letting go of Adam and leaning forward. "How the Feds found out about us, what they have in our files, what their next move is gonna be." Kris opened his mouth, his face angry, but Brad snapped, "I don't care what confidentiality agreements you signed, or what your old friends are gonna think of you. If you want _Adam_ , you'll tell us _everything_."

Adam sat, stunned, watching the two of them stare each other down like gunslingers in the street. Tension crackled in the air for a long moment, and then Kris looked at Adam and caved, his whole body deflating and sagging against the couch. His hands uncurled, falling limp at his sides.

"What d'you wanna hear first?" Kris asked, resigned.

  



	4. Chapter 4

The interrogation lasted for hours. Kris answered every question and even started to volunteer information as he got used to the idea of selling out his former colleagues.

It was terrible to listen to.

Not the words themselves—the evidence the Feds had on the two of them wasn't enough to be a real danger yet—mostly hearsay. The FBI was still waiting for Adam to make a major slipup, to try to move the diptych or to start another black market deal. Getting this news should have been a relief. Instead, a dreadful sense of responsibility started to weigh on Adam's shoulders.

Brad was picking Kris's life apart, destroying all vestiges of Kris's old allegiance to his country, to his sense of justice, and Kris had agreed to it, was a willing participant. All for Adam. The way Kris kept looking at him, brown eyes begging to be told that he was doing well, that he was doing _enough_ …. Faced with that much desperation, Adam retreated to the kitchen for the Catena Zapata Malbec. He brought back three glasses and clutched his own in front of him like a shield.

Kris told them about the FBI's investigation of Sinclair, how agents had caught and turned Sinclair's partner a day too late to stop the unexpected sale of the diptych to Adam. He confirmed that the FBI shared their suspicions: that the thief had gone to ground, presumably hiding from the cops and his partner. He told them about the Madison Avenue apartment across the street and the few salient pieces of information the agents had obtained in four weeks. And how that surveillance had come to an end last Monday, when Kris started calling in bogus fire alarms that forced them to repeatedly evacuate the building. He described the mobile surveillance he'd seen since then: the plain-clothes agents and the van parked down the block.

Whenever Brad paused to mull over some new bit of information, Adam snuck in questions of his own, needing to reassure Kris that he was doing well, that he was more than just a source of confidential information.

So Kris smiled shyly, sipped his wine, and told Adam about his time at the academy, about his mission work, and about how he could be so _sure_ that what he was doing—forsaking the FBI for Adam—was the right decision.

"It's just something I knew," Kris explained. "It's always been like that; something happens—I read a recruitment brochure, I meet someone—and I just _know_ what's right for me."

"What other things have you been sure about?" Adam asked.

"The missionary work. That was my calling for a few years. And then my first girlfriend."

"Why aren't you still a missionary?"

Kris's relaxed face shuttered closed.

"Kris," Adam urged. Unlike Brad, Adam didn't make threats when he wanted answers from Kris. He didn't have to.

Breath exploded from Kris's lungs in a gust. "I found out it was all a lie. The time I spent abroad, actually helping people—that was good. But when I got home, I saw how much of the money we raised never made it to the people who needed it. How it was used to build more churches in rich, first-world neighborhoods, instead of helping people suffering in poverty to find food or medicine. It was all a fraud."

Adam blanched at Kris's vehemence, at the betrayal and anger in his eyes. He didn't like what it implied: that Kris could become disillusioned and turn his back on something he'd been ready to dedicate his life to.

"And the girlfriend?" Brad asked.

Kris glared at Brad mulishly for a moment before nodding. "Fine. She dumped me. Five years together, and she decided I wasn't what she wanted anymore. The day after she dumped me, she was going out with one of my best friends."

"Oo, ouch," Brad smiled.

"And you're positive you're supposed to be with me?" Adam asked, ignoring Brad's attempt to change the subject, because _that's_ what it all came down to. Brad was manipulating this guy to find out what the FBI knew…and then what? They were just supposed to kick him out, barricade the door and let him throw his life away for nothing? Kris was a nice guy. Crazy and obsessive, yeah, but _nice_. And he was on Adam's side. He was Adam's responsibility now.

Brad shot Adam a warning look and reclaimed control of the conversation, making Kris share everything he remembered from their files. Adam squirmed as Kris recited Adam's arrest record, from the juvie bust for dealing drugs in high school, to receiving stolen property when he'd first gotten started in Los Angeles, and even the solicitation charge from a few years ago—which had been pure bullshit, revenge from one of Adam's black market clients. The guy had assumed Adam's procurement services included _other_ services, and when Adam had refused, he'd had Adam dragged out of a party by a couple of beat cops, ruining some of Adam's legitimate business relationships in the process.

The charge hadn't stuck, but Adam had spent a humiliating night in lockup with the rent boys and drunks. His stomach rolled remembering the disgrace of that night.

"And then I sent Paul to the asshole's house to share his herpes as payback," Brad smirked.

"You _what_?" Adam gaped, sloshing his wine.

Brad shrugged. "What, he humiliated my boyfriend and had him thrown in jail. I wasn't gonna let him get away with that."

Adam shook his head, not sure if he was grateful or revolted. But Kris was smiling at Brad, and he wasn't looking at Adam like he thought any less of him for the sins of his past. Kris had known his record from Day One, Adam realized, and the knots in his stomach untied.

Until Brad asked about their psych profiles, and Kris reported easily: "The behavioral analysts think Adam has borderline narcissistic personality disorder."

Adam choked on his wine, and Brad lurched forward to slam his own glass down on the coffee table.

" _What_?" Brad yelled.

Kris's face crumpled at their reactions. He reached a hand across the table, trying to touch Adam's knee. "I'm sorry. They're idiots; they don't know what they're talking about. They don't know _you_."

Adam shook off Brad's and Kris's comforting hands and stalked to the kitchen, reeling from the unexpected attack. People— _professional psychologists—_ thought he was some kind of self-centered monster, that he loved himself that much…. He couldn't wrap his head around it, couldn't get beyond the devastated astonishment that people were _thinking_ that about him. That the FBI, that _Kris_ ….

He couldn't cope.

Adam swiped at his face, trying to clear away any makeup that might have shifted out of place since the last time he'd checked. His fingers itched for the comforting weight of his Christian Dior eyeliner or a heavier set of rings.

Brad's hands landed on Adam's hips before he could retreat to his bedroom. "Babe," Brad whispered.

Adam didn't respond, but he leaned back into Brad's touch.

"Babe, it's bullshit. They don't know you, not like I know you."

That was a truth Adam couldn't deny. Brad knew him, all right; he knew everything Adam tried to cover up, everything he tried to draw attention away from.

"You're not like that at all. You're _good_ ," Brad whispered into his shoulder. When Adam still couldn't speak, Brad eventually sighed and backed off. "Try to let it go, okay?"

Then Brad turned and left the kitchen. From the other room, Adam heard Brad tell Kris, "I wanna talk to you. Outside. Now," and Adam braced his hands against the counter. When had their full-disclosure agreement with Kris turned _mutual_? He cringed as the balcony door closed, wanting to intervene, to stop the conversation before Brad spilled all Adam's secrets—the ones Brad had learned over years of living with Adam, of fucking, of fighting. About the makeup, the clothes, why Adam worked so hard all the damn time.

How Adam was _good_ , but not good _enough_.

He'd fixed his face and ordered Korean barbecue by the time they came back inside. Kris looked thoughtful, and Brad looked tired. Adam knew that feeling; trying to reason with Kris was _exhausting_.

Brad tried to broach the subject again, but Adam talked over him, changing the subject to his wine selection for dinner. Brad looked upset but eventually let Adam have his way, and Adam gratefully showed off his carefully curated wine collection, distracting himself with Kris's awed smiles.

They positioned themselves around the kitchen table, and Adam turned up the Jonathan Adler chandelier as the sun set. He'd spent hours, days, entire weeks-worth of his life sitting at this table, just him and Brad, with the rest of the world locked out. He'd never brought another lover to their table, and neither had Brad—whether because his were mostly marks, or because he understood Adam's unspoken feelings on the matter, Adam didn't bother to guess. Having another person at the table now—one Adam had slept with just the night before—was unprecedented, but the Chilean shiraz Adam had picked smoothed things over, and by the time food arrived, Kris's presence felt almost cozy instead of awkward.

They passed the bulgogi and red pepper paste back and forth, rolling the steak in crisp lettuce leaves and catching the juices with their fingers. Adam watched Kris take a tentative bite of the smoky-sweet beef, followed by a surprised smile.

"Do you like it?" Adam asked, already smiling in response.

"Yeah, s'good," Kris mumbled around the food in his mouth and licked his thumb.

"You've never had Korean before?"

He shook his head and swallowed. "Didn't have it growing up, and it's not something you wanna bring to a stakeout."

For once, the thought of Kris's past profession didn't sting. Adam shook his head and tsked, "Burger King all the way, huh?"

Kris blinked at him. "How did you—"

"Adam had me stalking you," Brad interjected cheekily. "Turnabout's fair play."

Kris blushed, possibly from the heat of the spicy paste, and smiled shyly at Adam again.

"Speaking of _stalking_ ," Brad said, pulling the bowl of rice closer to his plate. "I saw you at the Wilkstone Gala last night. Where'd you get your invitation?"

"I didn't have one," Kris said, his skin turning even pinker.

"They don't let _anybody_ past that door without an invitation or a badge," Brad said, a teasing note in his voice. "So? Did you keep a little souvenir from your old job?"

"I bought a $3,000 suit," Kris admitted, and lifted his chin. "That seemed to work well enough."

Brad snorted softly and spooned out a lump of rice. "Way to spend that TSP check all in one place. I hope it was worth it," he drawled.

Kris's eyes flitted to Adam's, and then he ducked his head over his wine glass. "It was," he said quietly.

Brad met Adam's gaze and trapped him with a penetrating stare. "Awww," Brad said, "that's sweet," his eyebrows doing a complicated dance, demanding to know if Adam agreed.

Kris's foot slid under the table to nudge Adam's ankle, and Adam turned away from Brad's attempt at telepathy to watch Kris take another bite of his wrap.

"So you blew your retirement plan on a new suit, and you've got essentially zero savings. How're you planning to make a living, Kristopher?" Brad asked.

Kris shrugged and said, with a hint of defensiveness, "I'll figure something out."

"Ever considered a life of crime? There's no medical, but the other benefits are _great_." Brad stretched his arms wide to encompass the kitchen and beyond.

"Brad," Adam warned. He didn't like Brad needling Kris like this.

"Considering your unreported income last year was over $180,000 in cash, not including the Maserati and other five-figure 'gifts' from your various marks, I'd say medical is superfluous," Kris deadpanned right back.

There was a moment of stunned silence, and then Adam burst out laughing.

Brad kicked Adam's shin under the table and straightened in his chair. "That reminds me," he said, trying to sound dangerous but coming across like a Persian cat getting a bath, "we've been through Adam's file, but what do the Feds know about _me_?"

Adam snickered and refilled Kris's glass, leaning close into Kris's space and brushing their forearms together.

Kris shifted a little closer toward Adam and smiled a smug smile at Brad. "I'm not sure you _really_ wanna know."

Brad folded his arms and puffed out his chest. "Don't push me, kid."

Adam sipped his shiraz to cover his grin. Brad playing 'tough' was too damned adorable.

Kris held up his hands, said, "Alright," and proceeded to share the names of the marks who had given evidence from the last three years, and the FBI's very unflattering psych profile of one Bradley Bell, conman.

Brad took it all with feigned equanimity, only the barest twitch of his pinky betraying his poker face, until Kris started listing his known aliases. When the name 'Peter March' came up, Brad knocked his glass over, spilling red wine all over his jeans and Adam's table.

"Son of a bitch," Brad squeaked, jumping away from the table. "You can't know— Damn it, that was my best identity!"

Adam got up and got a towel to mop up the spill. "I think this one's pretty great," he murmured, kneeling down on the floor to save the hardwood.

"Shut up, Mister I-Don't-Need-Aliases-To-Make-My-Deals," Brad huffed, and stomped off to his bathroom.

"Is he really upset?" Kris asked, and Adam leaned up to see Kris's eyes over the table, hoping Kris wasn't too worried.

Kris looked like the cat that ate the cream.

Adam knew that look; he'd seen it at Nikko's café, when he'd grabbed Kris's wrist to stop him leaving. This time, Adam felt an answering grin on his lips. "He'll get over it by tomorrow," Adam promised. "But he may be out for revenge."

"I've got eyes in the back of my head," Kris said. "He won't get the jump on me."

Adam would like to jump on Kris right now….

The stray thought brought attraction roaring back to the forefront. It had been buzzing around the back of his mind ever since Kris showed up at his doorstep that afternoon, looking as good as ever in jeans and a faded grey t-shirt, bare feet shoved into loafers like he'd run out of his home at a moment's notice. Adam had managed to hold the lust off all day, but seeing Kris confident again, flirting with Adam, teasing Brad, acting like he _belonged_ in Adam's world, _with_ Adam, suddenly it was impossible to ignore—and nearly as hard not to act on.

He stood stiffly and threw the towel in the sink. Kris was watching him with those mischievous eyes, licking his lips like he'd done before, on his knees for Adam, and fuck, he was really in trouble here.

"I leased the Cozumel timeshare in that name," Brad wailed from his bedroom.

"I'd better go see about his pants," Adam said, seizing the opportunity to get away from the kitchen. "You stay right there." He pointed a stern finger at Kris, who batted his eyes innocently back at him.

He found Brad sitting pantless on his bed in neon-green briefs, desperately flipping through a binder. "The Maserati's gonna have to be retitled. How the hell do I make _that_ paperwork untraceable?" he muttered to himself.

"Hey," Adam said, asking permission before entering.

"Hey," Brad said, scanning over another page of notes. "Do you have _any idea_ how much juggling I have to do now?"

"About as much as me?" Adam asked, and sat on the edge of the bed.

Brad looked up, about to refute him, but he was always quick with the uptake. His lips pursed and he said carefully, "What are we talking about?"

" _Him_ ," Adam said. "Is there still a plan? I'm not gonna just throw him out now."

"…It's your place," Brad said slowly. "I can't tell you who to throw out or not."

That wasn't what Adam meant. "Do you still think he's a threat?" Because Adam didn't, not anymore—Kris had chosen Adam's side over everything else. But Adam hadn't been objective about Kris for a while; Brad was the one with the clearer perspective. And if Brad still had doubts, Adam needed to hear that before he put both of them in danger.

Brad's expression softened, a hint of a smile flickering around the corners of his mouth as he said, "I don't have any objections. Do whatever you want with him. It's your call."

It was as though Brad had suddenly handed him all the missing colors for his palette, and he was free to mix them as he pleased. "Okay," Adam said, his fingers itching to get started.

"Okay?" Brad echoed, the stealthy smile reaching his eyes.

"Yeah. Sorry about Peter March." Adam patted his knee and walked out of Brad's room, back to the kitchen to see what Kris had gotten up to.

Kris was still sitting obediently in the chair, but he was watching for Adam over his shoulder, and when he spotted Adam, Kris bit his lip.

Adam wanted to bite it for him.

He held Kris's gaze until he'd reached the table and then ran a hand across Kris's shoulders as he took his own seat.

Kris gave a silent gasp, his mouth falling open in surprise. "Adam?"

"Yeah," Adam said, meaning everything.

Kris was out of his chair and sliding onto Adam's lap in the blink of an eye, his arms winding around Adam's neck, and his lips pressing hot against Adam's mouth. Adam got his hands on him like he'd wanted all day, squeezing Kris's ass with both hands, and Kris arched for him, radiating an eagerness that matched Adam's. Kris had been waiting just as long, had been kept on the other side of that line all afternoon, all evening, and he threw himself over it with abandon now. Adam groaned and took what Kris offered, drinking the taste of shiraz off his lips, stealing the heady heat of his body with his hands.

He stood up and tugged Kris into his bedroom, watched with indulgent pleasure as Kris's eyes strayed from his face to take in the room, the bed he'd only seen through binoculars. He looked stunned. Adam swung Kris around by the hips, kissed him hard, and pushed him down on the bed. "Feel them," he whispered, pressing Kris down and nuzzling his cheek.

Kris's arms spread slowly, his hands flattening greedily against the crimson sheets and his eyes sliding shut. "I watched you sleep here," he moaned. "I dreamt about this, about us."

"This isn't a dream," Adam said, admiring the way Kris's tanned skin looked against the sheets, so touchable and soft. "You look so good here."

Kris rubbed his cheek against the setting of his fantasies, his mouth open and panting.

Adam palmed Kris's cock, already hard, and felt the pleasure in his own dick as Kris thrashed his head helplessly. He leaned in and bit at Kris's jaw, kissed his throat. " _Look_ at you. I wanna see more. Strip for me."

Kris slid his palms across the sheets in another slow caress before he caught the hem of his t-shirt and pulled it up and off in a fluid movement. Adam knelt over him and ran his hands over those glorious pecs and shoulders, feeling the strength under satiny skin. He wanted them both naked, wanted to roll Kris in these exquisite sheets, hot skin and fine cotton tangling together.

"Pants," Adam said breathlessly, and stood up to remove his own. He tossed his jeans and t-shirt on the window seat and helped Kris kick his pants off, freeing his ankles. Adam grinned and caught Kris's leg, lifted it up to kiss the inside of his left ankle. "What do you want?" he asked, holding Kris's leg captive with a lascivious smile. "My mouth? My cock? Should I suck you off or fuck you?"

Kris stared up at him, naked and beautiful, his mouth trembling and a flush creeping down his chest. "Adam," he squirmed.

"I'll give it to you, whatever you want," Adam soothed him. "But I wanna hear you ask. I wanna hear the words on your pretty tongue."

"I want," Kris stammered, and his cheeks darkened to match the sheets. "Please, I…." His gaze fell to Adam's hard cock and he licked his lips.

Adam thrust his hips, making his cock bob slightly, and said, "Is this what you want, honey?"

Kris nudged his foot against Adam's hip and whispered, "I want your cock, want you to fuck me again," not meeting Adam's eyes, like he was suddenly shy after everything they'd already done, and Adam laughed.

"What's the matter, nobody ever made you talk dirty?" He released Kris's leg and climbed onto the bed to lick Kris's lips and rock their hips together. "Such a good little missionary boy; you're blushing like a virgin when I _know_ you've had cock before," Adam teased, getting his hand wrapped around both of their cocks.

Kris bucked his hips up, sliding through Adam's hand, and squeezed his shoulders. "Yours," he whispered fervently, and Adam tightened his grip, jacked them both roughly, until that single word registered.

Adam stopped moving. He let his hand fall open and their cocks slide out, his mind reeling from the implications, the fucking _terrifying_ implications of Kris's admission, of what Adam had done…or hadn't done…. Last night was a blur. He couldn't remember if he'd been good to Kris. He'd been drunk, and Kris had been eager, begging for it, and Adam hadn't fucking _seen_ …. And Kris was blushing under him now, pressing his face to Adam's throat like he was ashamed.

Adam rolled to the side and dragged Kris further up the bed, sealed their mouths together in a kiss because he couldn't apologize—it was much too late for that—but he could make up for it. Kris made a desperate noise, clutching at Adam's waist, and Adam had a guilty, greedy thought that Kris had never made that sound for another man, only him. Only ever him. Adam's fingers tightened in Kris's hair, and he growled, "That's good. That's so good, Kris," and kissed him again, hard and possessive.

He took his time sliding down Kris's body, mouthing along Kris's collarbone and biting at his nipples, listening to the noises Kris was trying to hold back.

When Adam settled between Kris's thighs and licked Kris's cock for the first time, Kris sat halfway up, shuddering. Adam caught Kris's right hand and put it on the back of his head, encouraging him to pull, to thrust and take what he needed as Adam took him in, sucking gently to get the taste of him.

But Kris didn't pull; he ran his fingers through Adam's hair, trailed them down to Adam's face and lips, his touch adoring, and Adam had to pull off and kiss those fingers before swallowing him down. Kris cried out and fell back, finally rolling his hips up into Adam's mouth and down his throat, his fingers clawing at the sheets. Adam hummed and sucked devoutly, making it right, making Kris feel everything he should have felt last night: treasured and wanted.

When Kris cried out Adam's name, coming in hot spurts across his tongue, Adam had to fight the urge to shout his possession. He stayed there, licking the very last drops that leaked from the slit to keep Kris shivering on the sharp edge as long as he could, until Kris's body completely unwound like a spool of gold thread, muscles gone lax under Adam's hands.

"Beautiful," Adam whispered, brushing a kiss to Kris's inner thigh. Kris sighed, a thoroughly contented sound, and didn't move. Adam grinned, kissed his cock, and crawled up to find his mouth.

"Love you," Kris said, hooking an arm around Adam's neck to draw him close.

Adam opened his mouth and nearly said it back, happiness an impossible pressure in his chest, and arousal throbbing through him, a hectic drumbeat in his veins. "You're so hot," he said instead, "fucking incredible," and sucked on Kris's lower lip.

Kris made more pleased sounds as he kissed him back, his hand fluttering up to hold Adam's hip.

Adam trailed kisses along his jaw and around to his ear, blew cool air over it and said, "Ready for round two?"

"Oh god," Kris moaned, and Adam urged him over onto his stomach. "Are you gonna—"

"I'm gonna do you right," Adam whispered in his ear, nuzzling along his hairline and closing his eyes to promise, "It's gonna be better than last night—make you love it."

"Last night," Kris said, and Adam's hands stilled on his back, breath caught in his throat at what Kris might say. "You can't top that," Kris said and arched his shoulders up into Adam's hands.

Relief left Adam flat-footed for a moment before he narrowed his eyes and leaned over to see Kris's face. Kris's eyes were scrunched up above a smug smile, and Adam growled, "Was that a _challenge_?"

Kris chuckled into the sheets and spread his legs. "Only if you think you're up for it."

"You cheeky bitch," Adam accused and swatted his hip. Kris was laughing at him, relaxed and _happy_ , and Adam couldn't hold back his smile as he said, "I'll show you _up_ for it." He settled himself on top of Kris, lined up his cock with the cleft of Kris's ass, and rocked their bodies together in a slow, delicious slide.

"Fu-uck," Kris gasped.

"Yeah," Adam breathed. He could get off like this, rutting against Kris's gorgeous skin until he spilled on Kris's back, branding him. But he had another plan in mind and he was sticking to it. Adam hurried to get his stuff from the drawer and pushed Kris's legs wider, running a hand from Kris's lower back over his round ass. "You're gonna love it," he said again, sure of his talents, and then delved in with a long lick over Kris's hole.

"What?" Kris squeaked, his ass cheeks clenching adorably.

"Mmm, relax, honey," Adam crooned, and did it again, getting Kris's hole wet and then rubbing the pad of his thumb over the puckered muscle.

"Oh my god," Kris moaned and dropped back down to the mattress. His whole body twitched as Adam licked over and into him, pushing his tongue in just enough for Kris to feel it. Kris groaned and shifted his hips a little, obviously sore, and Adam purred and opened the lube.

He spent long minutes working Kris open with his tongue and his fingers, switching up the sensations to make Kris squirm, rubbing his prostate to make him arch and buck. Kris's whimpers and prayers were heady, and Adam let the taste and smell of him, the sight and feel of him, draw him into an ecstatic state, like a painter caught up working on a masterpiece, so focused on his canvas he would let himself waste away in order to create something beautiful and perfect.

When Kris was shivering and panting, three of Adam's fingers rocking into him, easy like he was made for it, Adam leaned back and urged Kris to roll over. Kris kicked Adam's shoulder with a knee, but it was worth it when Kris groaned and arched as he rolled, Adam's fingers still in him, knuckles twisting deep. Kris's cock was hard and red, his balls pulled up tight to his body, and Adam gave his cock one more lick, swirling his tongue around the crown as he pressed with his fingers again, curling and dragging a shout out of Kris.

"You ready, baby?" he asked, his throat dry and voice rough.

Kris looked up at him with wet, shining eyes and nodded, "Yeah, yeah, Adam…."

Adam pulled his fingers out, and Kris groaned at the loss. Adam moved quickly, sliding on the condom, applying another coating of lube, and then he picked Kris's legs up and braced them on his shoulders. "Hang on, honey," he said, and slid in slowly, Kris's passage hot and slick and still so tight. Adam had to stop to catch his breath, trying not to come just from this, from the long buildup and Kris's tight embrace, from Kris looking up at him with trust and awe and love. He had to look away, and his gaze landed on the windows, the blinds he'd kept shut for weeks. He wanted to open them, show anyone who might be watching that Kris was his.

Kris turned his head, too, following Adam's gaze to the windows, and he made a sound deep in his throat, his hips bucking up onto Adam's cock. Adam was suddenly certain that _this_ was what Kris had imagined when he'd pictured himself in Adam's bed.

"Look at you," Adam said, wanting Kris to see himself through Adam's eyes. "You're so good, honey, so gorgeous taking it like this. You're amazing. I wanna fuck you all night. I wanna watch you come apart, just for me."

Kris threw his head back and howled, thrusting his body up until Adam relented and pushed in the last few inches, Kris's knees pressed tight against his own chest as Adam leaned down and kissed him.

Adam started to move then, speeding up and slowing down in response to Kris's sounds, the way he arched off the sheets. And Kris begged again and again, his fingers knotted in the sheets as Adam worked him over, claiming Kris with kisses and promises that turned into nonsense words the longer Adam teased them both, driving them to the brink until they both found ecstasy, coming together with one last hard thrust that took them over the edge.

Angry voices woke him with a start.

"What did you _do_?!" Brad was screaming.

Adam sat up in bed and winced at the muscle aches throughout his body. It was 8 a.m. on a Sunday, why was Brad up already? And why was he shouting? And why did Adam smell smoke…!

He stumbled out of the bedroom, one arm in his silk dressing robe as he fought to get it untangled, and he found Kris and Brad facing off in the kitchen under a cloud of white extinguisher chemicals sparkling in the morning sunlight.

"You did it on purpose! You're trying to fucking turn him straight, aren't you! I should fucking slit your throat right now!" Brad screeched, reaching for the knife block.

Kris reached for his shoulder holster—absent, considering he was only wearing a pair of NY Yankees boxers—and held his ground. "Try it, and I'll end you," Kris growled.

"What the _fuck_ ," Adam demanded.

Two sets of eyes turned to look at him and then drifted appreciatively down his naked body before turning to confront each other again.

"I was making you some cinnamon rolls—"

"Like hell! Adam, your little Fed just torched my backup stash of Euros. €30,000, up in flames!"

"I was _preheating_. Who the hell keeps cash in the oven?"

"I didn't have a lot of time to clean yesterday," Brad snapped. "And who just walks into someone else's kitchen and starts _baking_ at ass-o'clock on a Sunday?"

"Adam has a sweet-tooth," Kris snapped back, as if that explained everything in the world.

Adam rolled his eyes, dropped the robe in the doorway, and shuffled to his bathroom to take a shower. He was _not_ awake enough to deal with this shit.

Brad flopped onto the couch next to Adam and said under his breath, "So when Thomas gets here, what should we do about…." He jerked his head in the direction of the kitchen, where Kris was dressed in a pair of Adam's yoga pants and an old FCUK t-shirt, cleaning up the mess from the fire extinguisher.

Adam looked up from his newspaper. "Who's Thomas?"

"Didn't I tell you about him? I found the _perfect_ Emilio-replacement at Café La Thé yesterday. Tall, looks like he's not fucking around—he totally fits the bill _and_ he's a player. He's stopping by to go over the ambush on Justin in a few."

" _That's_ why you're up so early." Adam wondered in passing if Brad was going to sleep with _this_ Emilio, too, but the thought didn't stick, and he focused on Brad's question. "Kris is fine. Don't worry about him."

Brad nodded and then narrowed his eyes at the kitchen. "Well, not unless he goes near any other major appliances. Seriously, if he so much as _looks_ at that freezer, I'll kill him."

Adam didn't want to know what Brad had stashed in the freezer. He grinned and went back to his article on the Belgian Avant-Garde exhibit at the MoMA this month. None of his clients were particularly interested in the movement, but he'd always had a soft spot for Ensor's masked portraits. Maybe Kris would like them, too.

Fifteen minutes later, the doorbell rang. Kris came out of the kitchen, and Brad practically skipped to the door. "Okay, don't mess with this guy, okay? I need him. _You_ ," Brad warned Kris firmly, "not one word about our friends in the van outside. And _nobody_ mention a 70/30 split."

Kris shrugged and watched the door curiously.

Brad undid the three deadbolts, pulled the door open, and said, "Hi, thanks for coming."

"Hi," a deep voice said, and a man with brown hair and stubble walked in, towering nearly 18 inches over Brad.

Adam immediately approved of the distressed leather jacket and heavy boots, but something about Thomas's face seemed too delicate and thin to pull off "menacing badass."

Brad started introductions with, "This is my roommate Adam, and this is—"

Without warning, Kris shoved Brad to the floor and lunged for Thomas, smashing his fist into the taller man's face once, twice.

"Kris—" Adam gasped, shocked at Kris's unprovoked attack. What kind of rabid animal had he brought into his home, his bed?

Thomas ignored the blood gushing from his nose, reeled and spun, catching Kris's shoulder and shoving him away, sending Kris tripping against the back of the couch. Kris tried to straighten up, but Thomas was on him. He drove his knee into Kris's stomach and his elbow between Kris's shoulder blades before Kris grunted and wrapped his arms around Thomas, forcing him to stumble backward and slam into the doorframe.

Thomas winced as his head connected with wood, his eyes and expression suddenly familiar, and Adam _remembered_. His mouth fell open to shout some kind of belated warning as Kris punched Thomas again and again, aiming for his neck and chin. Thomas raised an arm to ward off the blows, and Kris swung low, just below his ribs.

Thomas gave Kris a desperate shove and lurched away and out the door, his footsteps running for the stairs.

Kris held onto the doorframe and watched him go, panting for breath.

"What the fucking, fucking, _fucking_ hell!" Brad yelled at Kris's back as he picked himself off the floor.

"Who was that?" Kris demanded. He turned, and his eyes locked on Brad.

"Alexander…" Adam said, trying to swallow the icy lump of panic still lodged in his chest.

"That was $90,000 you just chased out the door!"

" _Who was that_?" Kris said again, advancing on Brad, and Brad fell back a step at the dangerous look in Kris's eyes. "You brought him here; you knew him. Who was he!"

Adam got around the couch and pulled Kris under his arm to keep them separated. Kris was tense, taut muscles vibrating against Adam's body, but he didn't struggle against Adam's grip. "That guy," Adam told Brad, " _that's_ the guy I was flirting with on Friday. He had blond hair, said he was a Russian fashion designer. Kris got in a fight with him at the party and took him out."

Brad blinked at them and then looked at the door, a deep crease in his forehead.

Adam pressed, "And he just _happened_ to meet you at _our_ coffee shop the very next day, with new hair and a new name, and got an invitation back here?"

Brad's eyes flashed with anger. "You mean I got played? Son of a _bitch_! What the hell did he think he was doing, conning a conman!"

"He's after Adam," Kris growled.

There was no proof of that, Adam thought, but everything about that guy's presence set off warning alarms Adam couldn't ignore. "You _have_ to be more careful," he told Brad, and ignored the way his ex-boyfriend bristled. "What happened to your instincts? You've been warning me for _years_ about walking into somebody else's play. And first the Picasso deal, now _this_?"

Kris took a step in front of Adam and faced Brad down. "Don't let anybody else in here. I can't protect him if you're bringing the enemy into his home."

Brad looked like he dearly wanted to argue with somebody, _anybody_ , but he just glared at the two of them and said, "Fine. Can we close the door already?" He stomped past them and slammed the door shut.

"Could he've been part of the Picasso crew?" Adam asked Kris, wrapping an arm around his waist.

"No way," Kris said. "I sicced Interpol on them before I quit. No way those guys are still in this state." He looked at the blood on his hands and said, "I think I'm gonna need a gun."

"I can get you a gun," Brad said and turned the last lock.

Later, with Kris curled up sated and warm against his side, Adam's fingers traced the thin lines of light filtering through the blinds across Kris's bare skin. When he closed his eyes, he could still see Kris clearly: the soft curve of those lips, the strong frame of his body—they were burned into Adam's mind, unforgettable now.

He felt like humming, like singing, from a pleasure far more profound than sex. He knew who was in bed with him, and who would still be with him in the morning. And he couldn't believe how much he'd missed that in the years since Brad, missed it like a part of himself had been cut off and left behind in Los Angeles. The years of hookups had been good—had given him what he _needed_ , but this was indescribably better.

His fingers twitched as it occurred to him that the FBI had watched him for weeks, had judged him for his flirting and conquests and interpreted it as _vanity_ of all things. The next realization cut through him like a knife; that _Kris_ had seen him, watched him….

Adam pressed his hand flat against Kris's chest as he tried to block that thought with the simple fact that Kris was _right there_. Whatever Kris had read in that hideous psych profile, and whatever he'd seen Adam do, Kris was here with him. He'd chosen Adam over the FBI, over everyone else in the world, and if Adam could just wrap his head around that and understand why, he could let this sudden, gnawing uncertainty go.

 _Why me?_ Adam thought helplessly, and didn't realize he'd spoken aloud until Kris turned his head toward him and blinked his eyes open, a frown wrinkling his forehead. Adam kissed it away, smoothing the corner of Kris's lips with his thumb.

"Why you _what_?" Kris asked when Adam pulled away.

Adam wanted to pretend he hadn't said it, didn't want to be this vulnerable in front of Kris, but his heart was breaking with the need to know. "Why do you love me?"

Kris shrugged. "I told you, I just _know_ it's right. You're who I'm supposed to be with."

Kris's blind conviction was sweet but far from comforting. Adam twined his fingers with Kris's and placed their joined hands over Kris's heart. "What _about_ me do you love? What makes _me_ different from everyone else?" he pressed, even though he hated how it sounded: like he was begging for compliments.

Kris rolled over onto his stomach and leaned up on his elbows to look down at Adam. "Everything about you," Kris said. "The way you look, the way you dress—unapologetic about who you are. You've got this whole illegal operation, but you live your life in the open, like you don't care how much attention you attract. You're fearless and charming and loyal—I don't know how you put up with Brad for so long…." Kris flashed a grin so Adam knew he was joking about that part, at least partly.

But Adam lay decimated by Kris's words. Because he hadn't known what answer Kris would give, but _that_ …. Kris was wrong, _completely_ wrong about him, and Adam couldn't remember how to breathe for a minute, he was so shocked. "What did Brad say about me yesterday?" he croaked. "On the balcony."

Kris's grin turned into a scowl for a moment. "He tried to tell me you weren't perfect." Kris snorted, "Which is _crazy_. You're beyond perfect." He leaned down and kissed Adam's cheekbone, his eyelid. "You're the most beautiful, brilliant, _incredible_ person I've ever met, and when you smiled at me, _talked to me_ at the coffee shop, I was _gone_ for you."

"You really think of me like that?" Adam asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

Kris nodded and settled down, one arm draped over Adam's chest and his head pillowed on Adam's shoulder. "You're the only thing I want in the world, and I'll do anything to keep you safe." He gave Adam a squeeze.

Adam slid his arm around Kris and squeezed him back as he blinked up at the ceiling. He was still alive, despite the way it felt like his heart had been ripped out of his chest. He'd been nervous before; now he was flat-out terrified. Kris seemed that much closer to walking away from him, even though he was still in Adam's arms.

Adam ran his hands over Kris's hot skin, traces of their sweat still on his body, and he knew he couldn't let this go without a fight. He would have to work for it if he wanted to keep it, just like he worked for everything else he loved. If Kris thought he was beautiful and brave, loyal and smart, then that's what he would be.

And he would start by getting rid of the fucking cement block that was weighing him down.

"I'll sell the diptych," Adam said, and Kris shifted slightly, letting Adam know he'd heard. "If I don't have it anymore, the Feds can't touch me. Eventually they'll give up and leave us alone." He liked the sound of that; them, alone. He liked it more than the half million he'd paid for the diptych and the $350,000 profit he'd been expecting. "I'll make some calls tomorrow, see who's still interested. I'll finish this." It was the smart thing to do; dropping the price, setting his pride aside, and admitting he'd lost this round.

Kris apparently agreed, because he looked up and said, "Yeah?" smiling. And maybe it didn't feel so much like a loss after all.

"I'll have to go to my storage locker tomorrow. My contact list and phones…."

Kris kissed his collarbone and throat, moving slowly up. "They'll try to tail you."

"Yeah," Adam said. "You got any suggestions?"

"I know just the trick," Kris said, and found Adam's mouth in the moonlight.

On Monday morning Kris kissed Adam goodbye and left the condo in his own clothes, with a bulky copy of _Caravaggio: The Complete Works_ wrapped in newspaper and tucked suspiciously under his leather jacket.

Adam listened to Kris's fading footsteps, his forehead pressed against the door for a long moment, before he turned to Brad and said, "Let's go."

They took the elevator down to the basement and used the heavy, steel access door up to the alley to make their exit, dressed in their most conservative business suits and briefcases to blend in with the morning commuters. Adam approached the mouth of the alley cautiously, darting his head out to make sure Kris had made a big enough diversion.

He spotted Kris at the far end of the block, surrounded by half a dozen agents. As he watched, Kris was thrown up against the side of a van and searched, and Adam's heart squeezed painfully.

"Shit," he whispered, hand tightening on the handle of his Dunhill Sidecar briefcase.

"What went wrong?" Brad asked.

"They're taking him," Adam said, his throat closing up as Kris was manhandled into the back of the surveillance van. They'd talked about this possibility last night, but the Feds hadn't bothered with obstruction-of-justice charges so far; Kris had been certain his friends wouldn't arrest him.

"Then we have to _go_ ," Brad hissed. He darted a quick look for himself, grabbed Adam's wrist, and dragged him out onto the sidewalk of Madison Avenue just in time to fall into step with a pair of well-dressed businessmen.

They walked at a fast clip, Adam barely paying attention to where he put his feet, his thoughts still behind him, on Kris's defiant smirk as his arms were twisted up behind his back.

"He'll be fine," Brad said under his breath just before they split up at 63rd Street.

Adam wasn't sure if Brad was talking to him or not.


	5. Chapter 5

Trying to move a piece of merchandise that was the target of a highly publicized FBI investigation wasn't difficult; it was impossible.

Adam threw the burner phone across the room, just missing the frame of his favorite little Degas. No one would buy. They wouldn't trade, or even take it off his hands for a future IOU. He would have better luck throwing the damned thing in the Hudson River, he thought grimly, glaring at the attaché case that housed the source of all his troubles.

Priceless historical significance and financial investment aside, the thought was tempting: just sink it and have done with it. But he'd just tipped the entire network of black market dealers in the New York metropolitan area that he _had_ it, and if anyone snitched, the Feds would be busting down his door in a heartbeat.

Hell, if he was really willing to take the loss, he might as well ship the diptych back to the Verner Gallery and hope the investigation got called off. The Feds already had Sinclair to chase down. Why would they still care about Adam?

It was worth considering. Brad would have an opinion, and Kris would know if giving it back would actually work; Adam would ask them tonight. In the meantime, it sounded like the safe thing to do. Kris would approve, if nothing else.

Assuming Kris wasn't still in federal custody.

He snapped his little black book closed at the thought and looked around the small storage space. A thin layer of dust had collected in the weeks since he'd last been able to come here. He ought to be taking better care of his collection. Adam took in the contents of the room: all his most-beloved possessions, each acquisition a happy memory now hollowed out by worry.

With a heavy heart, Adam forced himself to unpack the box of Swiffer dust pads and got to work.

Nobody stopped him on his way into the building that night. In fact, there was no sign of the surveillance van anywhere on the street. Adam looked around the lobby suspiciously, half-expecting a crowd of G-men to jump out of the nonexistent shadows and drag him out of the elevator. But the lobby's familiar security guard didn't move a muscle, the doors slid shut without interruption, and the 6th floor hallway was blessedly empty when he arrived at his destination.

Adam breathed a sigh of relief and started opening the locks.

The living room was dark when he stepped inside, but light spilled out of the kitchen, so he called, "Kris?" before correcting to, "Brad?"

"In here," Brad called, and Adam set down his briefcase and headed into the kitchen.

The sight nearly knocked him off his feet. Brad was sitting next to Kris at the table, holding an ice-pack to Kris's face and rubbing the back of Kris's neck.

"Kris," Adam gasped. "What happened?"

Kris batted unsuccessfully at Brad's hand before giving up. "Hey," he said, his voice muffled by the icepack.

" _Honey_." Adam hurried to his side and got his fingers under Kris's chin, lifted his face up.

Brad sighed and withdrew the icepack, revealing Kris's black eye.

"Honey," Adam said again, his chest knotting up in impotent anger. "What happened?" He sat in the chair next to Kris and brushed his thumb over Kris's full lips, drawn thin with pain.

"The Feds didn't like our little distraction this morning," Brad said. His voice was angry, but his hand was gentle as he placed the icepack back over Kris's eye. "So they took it out on him."

The guilt Adam had been feeling all day suddenly threatened to suffocate him, but Kris shook his head slightly, his hand finding Adam's and pulling it into his lap.

"It's a different case now," Kris said, his good eye closed as he squeezed Adam's hand. "New agents, more pressure. They found James Sinclair's body yesterday—"

Adam's head jerked up to meet Brad's gaze.

"—they think he's been dead a week. Tortured. The photos they showed me…."

Kris shuddered, and Adam focused on Brad's hand, where he was squeezing the base of Kris's neck in a gesture of support.

"They think it's about the diptych; somebody else must be looking for it. Sinclair's partner, Firth, said Sinclair was scared of the original buyer, some collector who commissioned the job. That's why he sold the diptych to you and took off."

"I never heard anything about another buyer," Adam protested. The last thing he would've done was step on a collector's toes—especially one wealthy and bold enough to bankroll his own heist. That was just common sense. He'd thought Sinclair was smart enough to know it, too.

"It's just one possible lead right now," Kris continued, "but they've put Firth in protective custody. And…they think you're next."

" _Me_?" Adam blurted. "Look, if this collector wants the diptych so much, he can have it. I'll make some more calls, try to track him down—"

"You didn't sell it?" Brad asked, at the same moment Kris pulled away from the icepack and gasped, "No!"

Kris looked up at Adam, his good eye wide with fear. "The things he did to Sinclair," his voice cracked and he squeezed Adam's hand tighter. "The coroner's report said he was alive for it. His _hands_ , Adam."

Adam's stomach turned queasily, but he swallowed and put a comforting arm around Kris's shoulders. "Okay, then I won't go looking for him. But if he's looking for _me_ , the FBI will be the least of my problems."

"Did you tell them about the guy conning his way into our home yesterday?" Brad asked Kris.

Kris turned toward Brad and said grimly, "I didn't talk. I just listened." Brad nodded, and Kris looked down at the table. "The FBI doesn't care about the diptych anymore; it's a homicide."

Adam seized onto that. "I was thinking I'd have to send it back to the gallery," he admitted. "Now…. Maybe we make a deal with the Feds? Give them what they want and let them deal with Sinclair's killer?"

Brad bit his lip and shrugged. "What d'you say, short stuff?" he asked Kris.

Kris hesitated, blinking at the table before saying slowly, like the words were being dragged out of him, "I don't know. It might work. I can talk to them about a deal tomorrow."

His hand was shaking in Adam's grip, and when Adam looked down, his gaze landed on Kris's wrist and the ring of bruises where the handcuffs had been. He hissed and caught Kris's forearm, brought it above the table into the light.

Brad raised his eyebrows and nodded toward Kris's back, as though there were more injuries Adam hadn't seen yet, and Adam wanted to fucking _murder_ somebody.

But Kris said, "It's nothing. I'm fine."

"I'm sorry, baby," Adam said anyway, stroking Kris's hair. This was all his fault; he'd used Kris as a decoy just so he could get to his black book of contacts. He never should've been so stupid, or so selfish. Kris had been fine with the Feds on Saturday, but he hadn't been playing shell games back then.

They didn't move for half a minute, the three of them a still life of linked bodies, sharing misery and comfort.

And then Brad asked, "Do you still want that gun? 'Cause I bought in bulk."

After Brad finished icing Kris's face, Kris told Adam he wanted to take a shower. The troubled look in his eyes and the way he refused to let Adam join him in the bathroom said something else, though: that Kris needed to be alone. Adam tried not to think the worst—that this mistake had already cost him, that Kris was having second thoughts about being with him.

Guilt and fear overcame Adam's desire to cuddle him jealously in his bed. He let Kris retreat into the bathroom and sought his own comfort in Brad's room.

"It's my fault—"

"It was _his_ idea," Brad said, mid-brow pluck.

"And I should've said 'No,'" Adam insisted. "It was a terrible plan."

"It was a _great_ plan," Brad corrected him. "The guy's smart; don't knock his ideas."

"I know," Adam said, and added a half-hearted, "Shut up." He forced his fear down and focused on the things he could control. "I don't want him talking to the Feds tomorrow, not after what they did to him."

"Well, we can't send _you_ out there," Brad said, and made a small 'ouch' noise as he tweezed. "What would you say? Hi, I'd like to _hypothetically_ confess to trafficking in stolen goods?"

Adam tried to counter with a sensible argument why he shouldn't allow Kris to approach the FBI again. All he could come up with was, "What if it doesn't work?"

"I have no clue," Brad said, "but we can't worry about that until we try. And we'll find out soon enough; don't drive yourself crazy tonight." He set down the tweezers, licked his fingertips and smoothed over his brows, and finally turned away from the mirror with a fond smile. "Who am I kidding? You're already crazy. I'm surprised you haven't broken down the bathroom door yet."

Adam flushed, anger and jealousy welling up again at the memory of their bruises on Kris's body.

"Exactly," Brad said knowingly. "Not that it hasn't been fun listening to you two moaning and screaming the house down these last couple days, but I can't take another night of it." He squeezed his slender body into an extra-tight black t-shirt and tugged it down to his waist. "Justin's back from the Hamptons, and I'm not about to give up on my con just 'cause my favorite alias got cracked. Besides, I'm horny as hell thanks to you two, and I need to work it out of my system. Justin's massive cock should do the trick."

"What if the Feds follow you?"

Brad turned slowly and stared at Adam for a long moment. "Wow," he said finally. "Really? Nothing?"

Adam blinked. "What, they might! Kris said they have your file…."

Brad stepped over to the bed, caught Adam's face in his hands, and kissed him hard on the lips. When he pulled back, he was beaming.

Adam frowned, confused. "What was that for?"

"For being you," Brad said, and pecked him again. "Now I'm gonna go get laid—and hopefully get another Tiffany present out of my trust-fund baby. And you, go get your glorious ass back in that bedroom before your Prince Charming wonders why you aren't waiting naked on the bed for him."

Adam snorted and smacked Brad's impertinent ass. "You're hysterical, really."

Adam wasn't waiting naked on his bed when Kris finally came out of the bathroom; he was curled up on the living room sofa with a mug of hot coffee—heavy on the Baileys. Brad had left a while ago, the shower had shut off fifteen minutes ago, and Adam itched to go in there, but he couldn't. He didn't deserve to. What kind of beautiful and brave, loyal and smart man let Kris get hurt like that? He was trying to believe Brad’s assurances that it wasn’t his fault, but he still should have anticipated it, should have insisted on a different plan. Adam had to do _better_ if he wanted to keep Kris.

Kris came out wearing Adam's dressing gown, and the sight of him in the too-long black robe made Adam smile despite the way his gut twisted at the icepack pressed to Kris's face, a reminder of the bruises he had yet to see.

"Hey," Kris said, and curled up next to him. He dropped the icepack on the coffee table, stole Adam's mug, and took a big sip. His eyes widened at the alcohol's kick before he took another sip.

"Hey, yourself," Adam said, letting his fingers play with Kris's damp hair as Kris leaned against him. He closed his eyes and let Kris's proximity take the edge off his fear; Kris couldn't be done with him if he still wanted to be this close.

Kris was silent for a long moment before saying, "I didn't tell you the whole truth, before. About today."

Adam braced himself for whatever was coming and said against his chilled temple, "You can tell me now."

Kris took a deep breath and said softy, "They _want_ you to make a deal. That's why they told me about the murder, showed me the photos of Sinclair's body. They'd guessed I'd already told you everything about the case, and they wanted me to tell you _this_ , so you'd be scared into coming to them, asking for a deal."

Adam's skin crawled as he realized how easily the FBI had manipulated him. He'd thought the deal was _his_ idea. They'd used Kris perfectly, and he hated them for that even more than the physical harm they'd done.

"But it won't be a _good_ deal," Kris continued. "They're gonna use you, set you up as _bait_." He took another deep breath, still not meeting Adam's eyes. "I'm not gonna let you do that. I'll talk to them tomorrow, find another way."

Kris's knuckles were white where he was clutching the mug.

"Kris," Adam whispered, his voice strained from holding back his guilt and anger.

"They weren't my people," Kris blurted. "When I'd suggested…. I thought it'd be _my_ guys out there. People who…used to be my friends. These guys, they _hated_ me. They wanted me scared. That's why…." Kris gestured to his face, and lower, to whatever Adam hadn't seen yet.

And that was it; Adam would be _damned_ if he was gonna put Kris in someone else's hands again. Kris had been scared and hurt—was _still_ scared and hurt. And Adam was putting a stop to that, right here and now. He would do everything in his power to protect Kris, because that's what he deserved.

"You're not going out there again. We'll figure something out, our own play," Adam promised, wracking his brain for a new plan. "There's still no _proof_ I have the diptych, just Firth's statement, and maybe some rumors after today. So if I send it back to the gallery…then there's no deal and no case. They can't rope me into anything. And they can't touch you again. _Ever_."

It might not be the best idea in the world, but Adam had all night to come up with something better. And he would; he would come up with a million plans to keep Kris from getting hurt again.

Kris looked up at him, worry in his eyes but a tentative smile on his lips, and he shifted around, putting down the mug so he could lean up and kiss Adam. Adam opened his mouth and let Kris take the lead, Kris's tongue tracing along Adam's lips and finally slipping inside to meet Adam's, coffee and cream sweet in his mouth. Kris made a small sound and pressed harder against Adam's body.

Adam wanted to _take_ , but he didn't dare—not until he knew where the bruises were, where he could touch without causing more pain. He cautiously put his hands on Kris's hips, just holding him close for now.

The kiss became wetter and more urgent as Kris's teeth got involved. He nibbled on Adam's lower lip, trailed biting kisses down Adam's jaw and neck, licked his way back up to Adam's ear, making little moans and shifting his hips in Adam's hands. "Adam, _please_ ," Kris whispered.

Adam's cock twitched at Kris's words. He reached between them and found the silk belt of the robe, unthreaded it and pulled it open, the fabric slipping apart easily. Kris hummed when Adam's hands cupped his bare waist and slid higher, to his shoulders. Adam pushed the robe off Kris's shoulders, watched it slide down his body like shimmering water, but he closed his eyes in fury when he got a glimpse of the dark stain across Kris's lower back.

"Adam," Kris repeated, an impatient note in his voice as he squirmed above him.

Adam opened his eyes and made himself look at the marks of the FBI's revenge on Kris's skin. His jaw clenched at the fist-sized bruise low on Kris's ribs, and he slid his hand down Kris's arm, barely a whisper of touch over the bruises on his left elbow, where fingers had dug in cruelly. Kris's wrists were ringed in matching dark bracelets from too-tight cuffs.

Kris was trying to distract him, mouthing along his collarbone. But when he bowed his back to lick at one of Adam's nipples through his t-shirt, Adam could see over Kris's shoulder to the big bruise on his lower back, the darkest part of it a horizontal line, as though Kris had been thrown against a table or desk, and Adam's hands squeezed hard on Kris's unmarked upper arms.

"Kris," he growled.

"Kidney's fine," Kris mumbled against his chest. "S'just surface bruising. C'mon, _touch_ me."

Short of watching Kris take a leak, Adam would have to trust Kris that he was really okay. But he wanted to do the same and much worse to whoever had put those marks on his lover.

" _Please_ ," Kris demanded impatiently, so Adam didn't say anything at all, just fisted a hand in Kris's hair to drag their mouths together, sealing their lips together in a deep, claiming kiss.

Kris slid his knees forward to straddle Adam's hips, and he rocked his hard cock against Adam's stomach as Adam plundered his mouth, the tip of Kris's cock leaking against Adam's t-shirt.

Adam licked Kris's lips and got a hand around Kris's cock. He started jerking as he kissed his way to Kris's ear. Kris arched into him, holding onto his shoulders for support as Adam jacked him and bit at Kris's earlobe, sharp, stinging bites fueled by the anger still burning in his chest. Kris whimpered and held on, his forehead down on Adam's shoulder as he panted and writhed.

"I'm gonna take you away," Adam said. "Saint Thomas. Bali. Rio. I'm gonna take you away where nobody can find us," he promised and scraped his teeth over the skin behind Kris's ear.

"Yes," Kris moaned, and shivered with pleasure.

"Nrgh," Adam groaned, glaring at the clock.

Kris shifted and murmured something, easing into Adam's spot when he rolled to switch off the alarm clock. Kris was sleep-warm in his bed; Adam's morning workout plan went out the window.

His phone flashed on the bedside table, and Adam thumbed it on to check his messages. He'd missed some calls when he turned the volume off last night. Brad, Brad, Brad…. Adam ignored the voice messages and dialed Brad's number as he settled back on the few inches of pillow Kris hadn't stolen. Adam smirked and gave 3:1 odds Brad wouldn't appreciate the wake-up call, no matter what his latest Justin-crisis was.

After two rings, a voice with a thick accent answered, " _Adam Lambert_ , good to finally hear from you."

Adam's eyes flew open and he stared at the ceiling. "What? Who—"

"I represent a very powerful man, Mr. Lambert. A man who wants what belongs to him—what he has _paid_ for. You have the Matheron Diptych, and I have your boyfriend. Are you interested in a trade?"

"Fuck, fuck," Adam gasped. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think, beyond, "Don't hurt him."

"I won't, as long as you're willing to trade," the voice said, the threat belying its reasonable tone.

"Yes, of course, you can _have_ it, I don't care. Just… _let him go_."

Kris was suddenly awake and leaning over Adam, his mouth twisted in an angry line.

"A good decision. I'm going to text you an address. You will bring the diptych to me by 3:00 today. Come alone. If we see any of your FBI friends, we'll start cutting on your boyfriend. Just like we did to Mr. Sinclair."

"I'll bring it, I'm coming, _don't_ hurt him," Adam begged before he realized the call had ended.

He held the phone clenched in his fist until Kris pried his fingers open and took it from him. "Tell me what he said," Kris ordered, deadly calm.

"He has Brad—the guy who killed Sinclair. He wants to trade for the diptych."

Kris nodded once. "Okay."

"Okay?" Adam repeated, pushing Kris off of him so he could sit up. "This is _not okay_. He's gonna hurt him, and it's my fault. I never should've bought the—"

"We're gonna get him back," Kris cut him off firmly. "It's gonna be okay. We have what they want; we'll make the trade, and Brad'll be _fine_."

Adam wanted to believe him, almost badly enough to will it so, but this was _Brad_. His Brad. Kidnapped by a murderer, being held god only knew where…unless he was already dead, and Adam would never see him again, never see Brad's pretty face and wicked smile teasing him.

"Adam, _focus_. Did he say how many of them there were? Is it just one guy?"

"I don't know, how would I know that?" he snapped and stood up to pace, one hand buried in his hair, the other waving in the air.

Kris trailed him across the floor. "Did he say _I_ , or did he say _we_?"

"He said…" Adam paused and then started walking in the opposite direction. "He said _we_."

"Okay, so there's more than one guy." Kris didn't sound scared; he sounded like this was something he knew how to handle.

Maybe if he'd still been part of an FBI team, he _could_ have. But Kris didn't have backup. They were alone, with the FBI on one side and killers on the other, and no one to turn to for help. This was Adam's fault, and Brad was paying for Adam's arrogance or stupidity or crap luck, whichever had lead him to buy the fucking thing.

"I can't lose him," Adam said, and Kris's arms wrapped around him, trying to turn him around. Adam resisted. "If he's— I can't handle that. I can't live with that." The thought of that empty bedroom, of Brad missing from Adam's table, of everything being over between them, just like that—he was pretty sure it would drive him insane.

"I know," Kris said into his shoulder blade. "I'm not gonna let that happen. We're gonna get him back, I promise."

Kris caught Adam's hips and forced him to turn and meet Kris's eyes. When Kris flinched, Adam finally felt the tears running down his cheeks.

Kris reached up and got his fingers in Adam's hair, dragged Adam's head down. Kris kissed him, a long press of lips against his, and whispered fiercely, "I'll get him back for you, I promise."

Kris walked out of the bedroom in his jeans and t-shirt—the fourth day for each, and Adam thought briefly that he should've done laundry last night, should've taken care of Kris's and Brad's clothes, because there were always dirty clothes in Brad's bathroom.

He gulped his coffee and tried for the twenty-fifth time to make his brain stop thinking about Brad. But absolutely nothing could distract him from the absence in his home, the lump of panic in his throat. It was hopeless.

And then his thoughts derailed completely when Kris picked up a small box off the kitchen floor and drew out a brown leather shoulder holster, flipped it both ways to inspect it, and threaded it over his muscled shoulders. Adam watched in silence as Kris pulled a small silver handgun from the box and ejected the ammo cartridge to examine it.

The silver gun went down on the oak table, and out came a larger black gun, square-barreled with a longer cartridge. Kris muttered numbers under his breath as he stuck the black one in the holster, his brow furrowed in concentration. He pulled out the last gun—a small black revolver with six full chambers. He looked between the two on the table, tucked the silver one in the back of his jeans, and held the revolver out to Adam.

"Um," Adam said.

Kris's eyes lifted to Adam's, and his frown eased. "You ever used one of these?"

"I never had to," Adam said nervously. He reached for the gun, but Kris put it back in the box. "I need it," Adam insisted, and then asked, "don't I?"

Kris shook his head. "If you can't shoot, forget it. I can shoot well enough for both of us. Besides, if we get searched walking out of this building, I don't want you caught carrying an illegal weapon."

Adam blanched, remembering the enemy waiting downstairs. "Are you sure this is gonna work?" he asked.

"Yeah," Kris said without hesitation. "A public place with a lot of pedestrian traffic and too many exits to cover—it's a surveillance team's worst nightmare."

"Okay," Adam said and picked up his bag.

Kris pulled his jacket off the chair and covered the dark red skin around his eye with Brad's DSquared sunglasses. "Are you ready?"

He would never be ready. But he had to try.

They made it safely into their waiting cab without incident. Adam was a little breathless; sauntering out of the building under the noses of the FBI's surveillance team like they were just going out for breakfast—while armed with two unregistered firearms—was a little nerve-wracking.

A minute into their drive, Kris looked out the rear window and said quietly, "Blue sedan, left lane."

Adam took a deep breath and didn't panic. Kris had expected a tail; this was still part of the plan.

The cab dropped them off at Chelsea Market. Adam took Kris's hand and swung it as they walked into the ground floor arcade of shops and restaurants. The market was packed with the breakfast crowd, and Kris and Adam blended in easily, taking their time, pointing in the glass windows of the various shops. They picked up coffee at 19th Street Espresso and applesauce doughnuts from Amy's Bread, and browsed through the artisanal chocolate, cheese, and nut shops.

Kris kept up a smiling commentary on the two agents tailing them. Adam tried not to look over his shoulder when Kris reported that Agent A had taken a seat at one of the tables in the gallery, or that Agent B was in line behind them at Jacques Torres Chocolates. It was fitting, he supposed, that his first date with Kris would be staged for the FBI's benefit.

Kris kept his eyes peeled for the right density of patrons inside The Cleaver Co., and when he deemed it full enough, he took Adam's hand, loudly pulling him into the shop to sample the catering company's crab cakes and duck-and-cranberry turnovers. Adam grinned indulgently and squeezed through the crowd at the counter, moving deeper into the narrow shop. Within seconds they were out of sight of the storefront windows, and Kris was shoving through the Employees Only door, leading Adam blindly through a maze of doors to the open loading dock they'd spotted on their drive up.

Adam tossed their coffee cups and leapt the four feet to the street, right behind Kris, and then they were climbing into their waiting cab and heading east and north to the Midtown Tunnel with no one behind them.

45 minutes later they pulled up at Adam's self-storage unit in Sunnyside. Adam paid the driver an extra-big tip to report a different drop-off location, and they headed inside.

The security guard tipped his head and greeted Adam as "Mr. Randall" when he buzzed them through to the elevators.

"I thought you didn't have any fake identities," Kris said, leaning against the wall of the elevator.

In the light of the lone fluorescent bulb, with his hands tucked in his pockets, and his leather jacket hanging open, exposing the pull of cotton across his chest, he looked dangerously appealing. And this was dangerous ground, fittingly enough—sharing his last secret. Adam watched Kris and said, as the elevator doors opened, "I didn't. Until I moved to New York."

Kris followed him into the hall, and Adam hesitated. He wasn't having second thoughts, but now that they were only 20 feet from his storage room, the enormity of it was sinking in.

"I just have the one, and I only use it for this place. Nobody knows about Mr. Randall, not even Brad. And not the FBI," he added.

Kris nodded; he hadn't mentioned it on Saturday, so obviously it hadn't been in Adam's file.

"I've never brought anybody here. Not Brad. Not anybody." Adam took a deep breath and looked at the key in his hand. He'd carried it for so long, his and his alone. "C'mon," he said, and started walking.

"You don't trust Brad with this?" Kris asked softly, and Adam stiffened.

"I do," he tried to explain. "But so much of his time is spent with other conmen and contacts. Any of them could try to get him to talk, and it's…it just made sense…."

He wasn't saying it right. He didn't know how to explain the betrayal of their breakup. Trusting Brad with his life, his secrets, and his stash was different from trusting him with his heart. Or at least it _should have_ been. But it had gotten all tangled up, and in the end it had been easiest to keep this part of himself hidden, private.

Until now.

The fact that he'd brought Kris here didn't have to mean anything. It was necessity; they were on their way to the drop, Adam needed to get the diptych, and Kris was his protection. But that wasn't the whole truth. Because Adam was _glad_ Kris was here, glad it wasn't just his secret anymore.

"Adam?" Kris said, putting a hand on Adam's wrist, and Adam realized he was standing in the middle of the empty corridor, staring blankly at the door in front of him.

Adam shook himself and turned the key in the lock. "I thought about bringing you here. I wanted to," he said, because he wanted Kris to know he was welcome—that it wasn't just necessity. He pushed the door open and stepped out of the way.

Kris took a hesitant step forward, then another, and reached for the light switch. The dark room came to life, boxes and paintings and small sculptures revealed by the light, and Kris gave a soft gasp that Adam felt in his chest. Kris stepped slowly into the room, hands reaching out but not touching the medieval unicorn tapestry hung on the near wall. The yellow overhead light shone harshly on the ancient silk, obscuring the fine nuances of pastel, but it was still beautiful, still made Adam's heart ache in a way he couldn't describe. Kris's eyes drifted to the ornate Japanese screen next to the tapestry, and then to the small bronze Boccioni sculpture, its twisting angles shining sharply, inviting and dangerous to touch.

Kris turned again, taking in the entirety of the room, and Adam's heart was in his throat. He'd wanted Kris here, wanted to see Kris's smile, the awe and understanding in his eyes as he looked at everything Adam held dear. He'd assembled this collection over the past ten years: 11 paintings, 4 sculptures, the screen and tapestry, the case of small baubles, the cameo and necklace, rings no one had worn in a century or more. Things he jealously guarded against the world and would never sell, no matter how bad things might get. He'd wanted Kris to appreciate them, see the same beauty Adam did.

But seeing Kris in this room now, he was struck by something completely different—how well Kris _fit_. How he was just as important to Adam as the Degas, the Terekhov, the three Ensors—and Adam had a strange thrill at the feeling that this was a completion of sorts. He had everything he valued most in one room….

All but one.

Guilt and grief reared their hydra heads, making it impossible to swallow. He should have brought Brad here, he realized, watching Kris approach a stack of frames and gingerly pull the first one forward to peek at the second canvas. Brad would have loved this. But Adam had shut him out while still trying to keep him close, and he didn't know if he would get the chance to take it back, to fix that.

Adam's eyes fell to Sinclair's attaché case and the one objet d'art that didn't belong. He'd stashed the diptych here, with all his treasures, because it was too hot for the condo and might take a long time to sell. Now, he wanted it _gone_ , couldn't stand the thought of it in here any longer, where Brad had never been.

Adam turned his back on Kris and dug out the toolkit from his Perotti backpack. He moved the attaché case to his small desk, turned on the banker's lamp, and set aside the polishing cloths and jeweler's loop to make room. The diptych was light, the two panels of painted poplar smooth under his fingers. He touched it gently, unable to disrespect its history, its fragility, and carefully eased it open to reveal the portraits inside.

He took a moment to study the gold pins that held the hinges together, and then took the pliers and began tugging, painstakingly removing the two pins that had bound the panels together as one piece for five centuries, separating husband from wife. It caused a physical pain in his chest to diminish the piece, no matter how carefully.

"I'm sorry," he told them softly.

Behind him, Kris made a small sound, a whimper like he'd made when Adam moved inside him, and Adam glanced over his shoulder to see Kris hovering over the velvet-lined jewelry box, peering at its contents with wide eyes and shaking fingers. Adam tried to hold onto Kris's awed expression as he returned to his work, sliding the second pin free and dropping it in a small Ziploc bag so the diptych's new owner could undo the damage he had done and restore the piece.

"I need your help," Adam said when he was finished.

Kris didn't respond, and Adam had to turn in his chair and say it again, louder. Kris looked up, that awed expression still on his face, and Adam's pride warred with his anxiety in a discordant collage of emotions.

Kris came forward and opened the plastic wrap, helped Adam wrap the panels separately and slide the portrait of Jeanne de Laval into a plastic Duane Reed shopping bag. While Adam arranged the portrait of King René of Anjou facedown in the attaché case, Kris taped the shopping bag closed with several strips of duct tape.

They stared at the bag and the case for a moment, neither saying what had to happen next.

"Did you like any of them?" Adam asked softly, stalling.

Kris took Adam's hand and squeezed it. "They're all so beautiful. Thank you for letting me see them."

"Which was your favorite?"

"The blue painting, with the couple drawn on the flower vase."

"Chagall, _Les amoureux_ ," Adam said, and smiled fondly.

"Chagall," Kris echoed, shaking his head. "It's an amazing collection."

"I love it," Adam said simply. And then he fished the key out of his pocket and pushed it into Kris's hand. "If something happens, I want you to have the Chagall. Give the rest to Brad…if you can." He couldn't bring himself to say _if Brad survives_. "I want him to have it."

Kris squeezed Adam's fingers painfully tight around the key before he loosened his grip and accepted it, slid it into his own pocket.

"He needs someone to take care of him," Adam added. "He'll try to tell you he doesn't, but don't listen to him."

"Everything's gonna be _fine_ ," Kris promised, and picked up the plastic shopping bag. "I can take care of _both_ of you."

They walked five blocks north in a cold drizzle, grey clouds thick overhead. When they'd reached a particularly run-down block, Kris picked up a piece of cement and smashed the back window of a brown sedan. Adam waited nervously, watching both ends of the empty street as Kris climbed over the seat and unlocked the door, then hotwired the car.

"Now we're really in trouble," Kris laughed under his breath once the engine started.

"'Cause transporting stolen property is so legal," Adam said, smiling despite the dread in his gut.

Just past JFK airport, they pulled into an industrial zone of warehouses and massive fuel tanks and followed Kris's GPS app to a small warehouse with no visible activity. They looked at each other and didn't speak. There was only one plan—one brilliantly simple plan—and if that didn't work, well.

Adam carried the briefcase, leaving Kris's hands free to open the side door of the warehouse. They stepped inside and found a huge, empty space, nothing but a blue cargo van by the garage door, a few cots set up against a corrugated wall, and a group of men stepping forward to stand in the middle of the oil-stained, concrete floor.

One of the men had an arm locked around Brad's, like he was holding Brad captive and holding him _up_ at the same time. The halogen lamps were three-stories above them, shining sickly on Brad's pale face. Blood trailed down the side of his neck from his hairline, below the collar of his purple vinyl jacket, and fuck, _fuck_ , Adam couldn't fall apart now.

The other two men had handguns drawn on them. Adam wasn't surprised to see Alexander in the group, but he _was_ surprised when Alexander turned his gun on Kris and snarled in a thick accent, "That's one of them. He's FBI."

"No!" Adam protested, sidestepping to stand in front of Kris. "Not anymore. I bought him off; he's my personal bodyguard now."

"You should have come alone," the last man snapped, and Adam recognized his voice from the phone call: the man in charge. His face was hard, a cruel set to his mouth, and Adam shivered and kept his eyes fixed on him.

"I brought the diptych," Adam said, holding up the case to appease him. "I want to trade."

"Show me," the boss said.

Adam fumbled the clasp of the case open and lifted the lid, angling the case down to show them the crown and lilies device on the back of the portrait. "Here it is," he said, watching to see who knew the piece. The boss lowered his weapon and stepped forward, intent on the art, and Adam dropped the lid. "The diptych for my boyfriend," he said with all the confidence he could muster.

Kris was shifting subtly around him, getting a clear line of fire on the three men.

The boss studied Adam's face and then smiled. "Of course," he said, waving at the goon holding Brad. "That's the deal. You put the case on the ground. There." He pointed with his gun to a spot between their two groups.

Kris made a small noise of caution, and Adam let the case hang from his hand as he stepped forward slowly, his eyes fixed on the man bringing Brad forward. Adam reached the halfway point and set the case down, his hands painfully empty as he waited. The goon shot a look over his shoulder to his boss, got the final nod, and shoved Brad toward Adam.

Brad stumbled, his mouth pinching up like he was about to be sick, and Adam caught him before he fell, grabbing Brad's small body and hugging him tight, even as the guy kicked the case away from Adam.

"Adam?" Brad moaned.

"Step back," Kris hissed, and Adam had to tear his face away from Brad's neck, smelling sourly of vomit and blood, and squeeze him again before moving him back to stand with Kris.

The boss set his gun aside and picked up the case. He flipped up the lid to get a closer look, and then said calmly, "Kill them."

Kris had a gun out before anyone could blink, but Adam blurted, "That's not all of it!" and everyone froze and looked at him. "That's only half of it," Adam elaborated quickly. "I've hidden the other half."

The boss pulled out the plastic-wrapped panel, turned it over in his hand, and swore something long and angry.

"If you want it, you have to let us go," Kris said, his gun pointed at the two men aiming at him.

There was a long moment of silence, the five of them staring at each other as Brad sagged lower and lower in Adam's arms. And then the boss laughed, a sharp, sneering sound.

"I don't think so," he announced smugly. "I let you go and what? Trust you to call me? No. You aren't going anywhere. Grigory!"

The blond goon started to circle to the right, cutting off their exit and forcing Kris to split his attention between him and Alexander. Kris couldn't cover both men at once, and Adam read panic in the way his shoulders inched up.

They were screwed, fucked, about to die. With their plan a thing of the past, Adam closed his eyes and did the only thing he could think of. "I'll stay," he said.

"What?" Kris said.

"You let them go, and I'll _take you_ to the other half. How about that?" he offered, looking to the leader so he wouldn't have to meet Kris's eyes.

"You aren't doing this," Kris said, and stepped closer to him and Brad.

Adam held his breath until the boss nodded, and then he answered Kris, "I _am_." This was the _brave_ thing to do. Kris would appreciate that later. "I need you to take Brad."

"I'm not leaving," Kris said, a stubborn set to his jaw.

"Yes, you are," Adam said, his tone fierce. "You're gonna take Brad to a hospital. Right now."

"No," Kris said, but Adam shook his head and pushed Brad at Kris. Kris caught him around the waist, trying to keep his gun free without letting Brad fall.

Brad's head lolled on Kris's shoulder, and he blinked at Adam, a crease between his eyebrows. "What're you doing?" Brad asked, the words slurred and faint.

"It's okay, baby," Adam reassured him, and then he stared Kris down, pressing his advantage. "I need you to do this for me, Kris. You promised you'd take care of Brad."

Kris met his eyes for three seconds, four, and then cursed and shot a look at their enemies. "You don't even have a _gun_ ," he whispered.

Adam wanted to say something confident about not needing one, but he wouldn't have fooled anyone. "Go," he said, and took a last look at Kris and Brad before turning to face the Russians.

Alexander and Grigory stayed focused on Kris, their eyes and guns tracking him as Kris shuffled toward the door, supporting Brad. Adam didn't watch. He couldn't; he could barely keep himself from running after them, bullets be damned. Instead, he met the leader's gloating gaze and tried not to let his shaking show.

"Well played, Mr. Lambert," he said, his accent grating on Adam's nerves. "Now, tell me where you've hidden the other half."

Adam took a deep breath and scraped together some hauteur and arrogance. He'd used them as a mask for years; this was just another audience. They wouldn't know how scared he was—not if he didn't let them see it. He folded his arms across his chest and shook his head, reminding himself that he looked tall and powerful in his long, Gucci coat. "Not until I know they're safe. Not 'til I hear the car pull out," he said, and his voice didn't tremble at all.

"Hmm. Alright," the boss said. He set King René's portrait atop the briefcase and crossed his own arms. Grigory drifted back into position next to Alexander and his boss, and the three of them waited, staring Adam down.

Adam tried on a sneer. It didn't really work until he concentrated on their clothes: baggy jeans and European leather jackets with too much fabric at the waist. Alexander was wearing a black turtleneck, Grigory and the boss were in grey t-shirts, and it was all so stereotypically action-movie-thug that Adam wanted to laugh. The sneer came naturally then, and he tossed his head, enjoying his sartorial superiority in the absence of anything else.

Alexander muttered something to Grigory, and Adam turned to stare down his erstwhile suitor. Alexander certainly didn't appear interested in Adam now. He looked like a stone-cold professional. Adam remembered a few of the extravagant compliments Alexander had paid him last week, and he snorted softly. That was impressive dedication to his role.

Alexander noticed him watching and glared back, his own sneer on his lips. Adam smiled, batted his lashes, and enjoyed the way Alexander recoiled in fury.

The silence was nerve-racking, nothing but the patter of rain and the roar of a jet engine somewhere nearby. The boss's eyebrow twitched. Adam twitched an eyebrow right back, refusing to think about what would happen next: how they would climb into the cargo van and drive behind a warehouse two blocks over; how Adam would lift up the lid of the trash bin and pull out the plastic bag, a gun barrel digging into his back; how he would be pushed onto his knees on the wet pavement and get a bullet in his head.

Kris would take care of Brad; they'd both get clear and be safe, and that was all that mattered anymore. Adam could almost make peace with that.

Almost.

"It's taking a long time," the boss said, drumming his fingers on his arm.

"Hmm," Adam said. "Maybe that's because Brad couldn't _walk_. Which one of you hit him?" he asked, anger bolstering his confidence as he stalled for time.

Grigory tilted his head. "I did," he said, in the heaviest accent of the three. "Little bitch talked too much."

"Little bitch?" Adam said. "Yeah, he can be. But he's _my_ little bitch."

"And what will you do about it now?" the boss asked. "Your bodyguard is gone, your FBI friends aren't here to protect you. It's just you and us."

"And me," Kris said, and Adam whirled around to see him walking through the open door, his hands cupped around the butt of the big black pistol.

Adam wanted to kiss and strangle him. "What are you doing?" he demanded. "Where's Brad?"

"He's okay," Kris said tightly, taking quick steps to stand in front of Adam. "You're not." And then he raised his voice and called, "I'm not gonna leave you alone in here with that cocksucker," pointing his gun at Alexander.

"Are you changing the deal again, Lambert?" the boss asked, sounding amused and still confident, damn him.

Alexander was anything but amused. "You son of a bitch," he said, taking a step forward.

"I made you my bitch twice already. One'll get you ten I can do it again," Kris taunted him, adding fuel to the fire.

"Kris," Adam whispered, resting a hand on his shoulder, his eyes glued to Alexander.

Alexander took another step forward, his face turning red with humiliation and anger, and his boss said sharply, "Alexander!"

"What's the matter?" Kris pressed, acting out some plan Adam couldn't figure out. "You scared? Don't wanna get your ass kicked in front of your buddies? Come on, let's see what you've got!"

And Kris relaxed his grip on the gun, pointed it up to the ceiling, and beckoned Alexander to come fight him.

"Alexander," the boss snapped again, and Grigory reached forward, as though he meant to take Alexander's gun. But Adam caught the way Alexander's eyes narrowed and his grip tightened, and Adam shoved Kris aside just as Alexander pulled the trigger.

He felt the impact, felt his knee hit concrete, but mostly he _heard_ —heard Kris shouting his name, the Russians shouting at each other, Kris firing over Adam's head, sharp reports echoing off the steel walls. And then Kris was dragging him, a hand fisted in Adam's collar, and Adam stumbled after him until his legs turned to jelly, well short of the door. Kris dragged him sideways, and Adam heard the collar of his lovely Thomas Pink shirt tear. And then Kris shoved him behind the bumper of the van, and Adam's whole body throbbed at once, cleansing his mind of everything else.

There was more shooting, and Kris's knee shifting against his arm. Kris was talking to him as he fired. Adam tried to focus past the white hot—or was it blood red—heat in his chest, but he couldn't make out the words. He tried to answer, tried to ask if he was going to die. He needed Kris to tell him he was going to make it, it was just a scratch, he was gonna be _fine_ just like Kris had promised, but Kris wasn't looking at him, and the lights were going out.

There was firing, and firing, and silence, and Adam's body surrendered the fight.


	6. Chapter 6

He was floating in darkness, faint whorls of color drifting around him like Van Gogh's _Starry Night_. He tried to focus on them as they moved past, track them with his eyes, but a burst of light caught him by surprise, and when the darkness returned it was shot through with bright pinpricks, and his eyes hurt.

Adam forced his eyelids open again and squinted against the light until it resolved into windows, thin blinds, and daylight, grey and overcast.

"Trgpth," he said around the cotton wool in his mouth. He tried to lick his lips and start again, but a hand was suddenly on his knee, and a face was moving over him. Brad's big brown eyes slowly came into focus, followed by his pretty little mouth and cute nose, and Adam smiled.

"Are you smiling?" Brad said. "Because if you are, don't. Really. It's horrifying."

Brad was okay; he was safe. Adam smiled harder and tried to reach for Brad's face. He was pretty sure he managed to twitch his fingers, at least.

His eyes started to sag shut, and Brad laughed, "Glad _one_ of us is allowed to sleep."

He opened his eyes again, knowing there was something he should ask, something that was missing, but Brad smiled and said, "Go to sleep, sweetheart," and Adam did.

The next time he woke up, he was still floating, but the light wasn't as bright, and when he opened his mouth, an ice chip slid in.

"Look who's up," Brad murmured, and Adam smiled again, because he loved it when Brad took care of him. He'd caught the flu his first two winters in New York, and Brad had stayed by his side each time, feeding him Gatorade and saltines and babbling up a storm.

"Hi," Adam said around the melting ice chip, and was proud when the word came out clearly.

"Guess what."

"What?"

"You're gonna live."

"I am?" Adam asked, and gave his surroundings a hard look. "I'm in a hospital," he said slowly. "I got shot." Funny, he didn't _feel_ like he'd been shot. He felt pretty awesome.

"Yeah, you did," Brad said, and poked at the right side of his chest.

Adam tried to lift his head to see, but he couldn't seem to control his neck very well. "I'm okay?" he said hopefully.

"Well, _now_ you are. You were in surgery for hours; Kris screamed at three different nurses and was almost removed by security. But they said you're out of the woods."

"Kris," Adam said, and tried to sit up. Kris wasn't here; he should _be here_. Sitting up proved even more impossible than lifting his head, and after a moment he gave up and panted, "Where is he?"

"He's taking care of things," Brad said, and Adam recognized Brad's would-I-lie-to-you? smile.

"What happened?" Adam demanded, still out of breath. His chest was starting to ache from his efforts, and there was a twinge _inside_ , where he'd never felt anything twinge before. What the hell was that? He tried to stay focused on Brad's face.

"I'm kind of foggy on the details, but I remember you saving my ass. And then I was sitting in a car, there were gunshots, and the Feds showed up. One of 'em gave me her jacket." Brad stood and held a dark blue windbreaker with yellow lettering against his chest, modeling it like a new Belstaff jacket. "I am _so_ keeping this. Hey, are you feeling okay?"

He wasn't. The ache was becoming a throb, and tears sprang up behind Adam's eyes. "What happened to _Kris_?" Adam insisted.

"Hold on," Brad said, and leaned over him. "I'm gonna give you another hit of morphine, okay?" He straightened up again and stroked a hand through Adam's hair.

" _Kris_ ," Adam said again.

"He's fine. He's making sure we don't all go to jail," Brad said.

The pain eased like a knot unraveling, and Adam breathed easier as the loose, drifting sensation came back.

"How's he doing that?" Adam asked, even as his eyelids fluttered heavily.

"I could tell you, but it looks like you're gonna pass out on me any second."

"I'm not. Tell me."

"Don't worry about it right now, doll."

"Brad," Adam said sternly, only it came out a whine. His eyes were closed now, but he could still _listen_. There was nothing wrong with his _ears_ , damn it.

"Fine. He's trying to make a deal with—"

Adam fell asleep.

He was pretty sure he was awake. The room was dim, lit by a single lamp next to the bed, and Kris was holding his hand. Adam twitched his fingers and yawned just as Kris opened his eyes.

Kris was kissing him before he'd even gotten his eyes open again, soft lips brushing his chapped ones and then nuzzling over his eyelids and into his hair, and it was so wonderful, so exactly what he needed, that he decided it must be a dream. He smiled and let himself drift again.

He woke to a nurse changing his IV bag on what turned out to be Thursday. She smiled kindly and declined to answer any of his questions, but a doctor came in a few minutes later, and Adam was finally able to get some answers. Each answer led to another question—the bullet wound, the blood loss, the surgery, the stitches, the pain meds, and his prognosis. It was pretty sobering stuff, and as he listened, left hand white-knuckling the side of his bed, he wished someone was there to hold his hand.

They unhooked the morphine drip and gave him Percocet to take as needed, and even gave him the code to use the in-room phone, and privacy to call his loved ones.

Adam reached for the phone eagerly and then froze when he realized he didn't know Kris's number. He clenched his fist and dialed Brad's number, hoping he would know how to get in touch with Kris.

It went straight to voice mail, and it took Adam a minute to remember that the last person who'd had Brad's phone was the asshole Russian kidnapper.

He was just beginning to despair—and seriously consider calling Lou, even though he shouldn't involve her when the heat was so high—when there was a commotion at the door.

"It's Louis Vuitton," Brad was saying haughtily, and Adam could hear the sneer in his voice even through the closed door. "You wanna search it? Fine, go ahead! Like I'm seriously gonna pack a gun in couture. Whatever."

Adam grinned and played with his ID bracelet, waiting for Brad to finish taunting whoever was outside.

A couple minutes later the door opened, Brad said, "Kisses," to a man in a black suit standing right outside Adam's room and closed the door after him. "Ah, there's my Sleeping Beauty," Brad said, grinning at Adam and hurrying over to kiss him. "How're you feeling?"

Adam shrugged with his left shoulder—he was going to follow the doctor's orders and keep his right side as still as possible for the next two weeks. "A little worse. They took away the morphine."

"If this means you won't fall asleep on me," Brad teased, "I approve."

"How're _you_?" Adam asked, trying to see any bruises or cuts on his friend's skin.

"I'm good, I'm good. Had a concussion for a couple days, and they kept waking me up every two hours to ask me who the president was, but they finally cleared me for actual sleep last night. Ugh, I've never been so tired in my life. My eyes were starting to match Kris's…but that's what makeup's for. Speaking of which…." He swung the Louis Vuitton satchel onto Adam's thighs and unzipped it. "I thought you could use a little pampering."

Adam's fingers twitched, eager to grab the bag and dump it out on the blanket. "You brought me my makeup?"

"Of course! What kind of friend would I be to let you languish here with clogged pores and fallen mascara?"

Adam lifted his left hand and shakily rubbed under his eyes.

"Don't you worry about that," Brad said, pushing his hand back down to the sheets. "I promise, no mirrors until you're your stunning, gorgeous self again. Now, let's get you propped up so I can see what I'm doing."

Adam could have kissed Brad, could have _cried_ as Brad pulled out tissues and cold cream and wiped away the traces of Tuesday's makeup. The morphine had left him too blissed out to care about his appearance yesterday, but not knowing what he looked like, what people saw when they looked at him, was a terrifying prospect. Brad understood that; he knew what it meant to Adam.

Adam stayed still while Brad shaved him, waiting until Brad pulled out the spray foundation and a sponge to ask, "Is Justin okay? I mean…what happened Monday?"

"I never made it to Justin's. I never even made it past _69th_. I'd gotten in a cab, we'd gone about a block, and then a big van pulled alongside at a red light and some guys dragged me out. Next thing I knew, I was in that warehouse with Thomas and his friends, and they're trying to get me to tell them where you stashed the diptych. I told them I didn't _know_ , and they didn't like that very much."

"I'm sorry," Adam said, watching Brad's face as Brad concentrated on blending the makeup down Adam's neck.

"It's not your fault," Brad snorted.

"I know. But also about…. I'm gonna show you my storage locker."

"Oo, gonna show me all your loot? Careful, I might decide to hock it all and run off to Zimbabwe for New Year's." Brad was grinning, but Adam caught the way his nose scrunched up—one of Brad's few tells.

"How about I just give you half for Christmas? That should get you to Marrakesh, at least."

Brad finally met his eyes with a nervous smile. "You don't have to do that. I knew why you didn't tell me, before. Okay? I got it."

Adam shook his head. He needed Brad to understand how much he regretted everything he'd done—the crap way he'd treated him. But he didn't get a chance to explain, because Brad started swiping the sponge over his cheeks with fast, agitated strokes.

"I don't want any more grand gestures out of you, okay? I heard what you did for me. And you're not allowed to do anything that stupid _ever again_. Leave the heroics to Kris from now on. That's what he's there for."

"It wasn't stupid—" Adam protested.

"Yes it was! Trading yourself for me? Taking a _bullet_ for Kris? Christ, Adam, you did everything you could to _not_ make it outta there alive! We're lucky you had Pocket Rambo in there with you."

Adam blinked. "Okay, what?"

"Oh, didn't you hear? Kris _killed everybody_." Brad stopped attacking his skin with the sponge and shook it at him instead. " _That's_ what happens when you get hurt: Kris goes crazy and starts killing people. So maybe don't get shot next time." He ignored Adam's gaping mouth and started covering his forehead, muttering, "It's a good thing _somebody's_ trained to watch your back. I wonder if he'd teach me how to shoot…."

Adam finally caught his breath and managed to gasp, "Is he—is he okay? Are they pressing charges? Did he get away?" They'd committed so many crimes just trying to get Brad back, and then to add three bodies on top of everything…. Adam refused to accept that he might never see Kris again. If Kris went to prison, Adam would hire lawyers, or someone to break him out. If he had to flee the country, Adam would go with him.

"He's fine. Better than fine, actually. From what he said last night, he's _winning_."

"Winning—what?"

"I tried to tell you yesterday; he's making a deal. A couple deals, actually. Your guard out there's one of the concessions." Brad jerked his thumb toward the door, and Adam remembered the man in the suit.

"FBI?" he guessed. "Does that mean I'm under arrest, too?"

"Nope. CIA. Kris says it's a jurisdictional mess, and he's conning the system in our favor. The kid's got promise."

"He's a year older than you," Adam said, correcting the nickname.

"And I have a thing for older men," Brad agreed breezily. He finished covering Adam's nose and leaned back, licking his thumb and holding it in front of Adam's face like a painter critiquing a work in progress. "What do you think, smoky eye or jewel tones?"

By the time Brad finally gave him a mirror, Adam looked and felt like himself again. His hair was greasy, but Brad had pushed it back with gel, dabbed his neck with cologne, and even rubbed glitter moisturizer into Adam's arms and hands. He looked good, like somebody someone would want to date, and Adam handed back the mirror and dragged Brad down for a chaste kiss.

The Percocet dulled the pain to a mild discomfort and left the world a little fuzzy, but he managed to stay awake a full two hours after Brad left before succumbing to a nap.

He awoke to a kiss and blinked his eyes open to find Kris leaning over him. For a split second he forgot about Brad's makeover and almost pushed Kris away, but that was C-Thru lipglass slick between their lips, and the familiar scent of his cologne, and Adam closed his eyes and tilted his face up for more. His hand found Kris's t-shirt, clean and soft, and he tugged on it, wanting Kris as close as he could get him.

Kris's knee pressed into the mattress, and Adam tugged again and said, "C'mere," into Kris's mouth.

Kris climbed gingerly onto the mattress and lowered himself down along Adam's left side. "This okay?" he asked between kisses, his fingers gentle under Adam's chin. "How do you feel?"

"Better now you're here," Adam said, and brushed their noses together in an Eskimo kiss. He remembered what Brad had said about Kris taking it badly when he got hurt and added, "Sorry I got shot."

Kris made an indignant noise and grabbed his hand. "Shut up. And don't ever do that again."

"I promise," Adam said. "No more heroics."

"Good. I couldn't…. _Good_ ," he repeated, squeezing hard on Adam's hand.

"Are you okay?" Adam asked. "Safe? Brad said you're making deals." He held back his growl at the memory of Kris's last deal with the FBI.

"It's almost done. I'm getting you a citizen's commendation."

"What?" Adam laughed, surprised.

"You helped stop a team of foreign mercenaries killing Americans on American soil. You're a hero."

"That's _ridiculous_."

"Not to the CIA," Kris said, and glanced toward the door. "They're making the FBI play ball. Are you okay with being on record as a confidential informant? I promise your name won't leak."

"I'm okay with anything, as long as we don't go to jail. Now kiss me again."

Kris complied, his hip pressed against Adam's and his fingers carding through his hair, his tongue teasing and sweet. "You're gonna be okay," Kris whispered.

"I missed you," Adam whispered back, his left arm squeezing Kris's waist. "They said I could use the phone, but I didn't know your number."

" _Oh_ ," Kris said, and leaned over him to get to the bedside table. He found a pen and picked up Adam's right hand to write across his palm, repeating each number aloud, "201-555-6263."

"Thanks," Adam said, and closed his fist around the number, keeping it safe. "You know, if you'd given me this number back at the coffee shop that first day, I totally would've asked out a federal agent. Talk about embarrassing."

Kris buried his face in Adam's good shoulder and huffed out a laugh.

"So this means I could ask you out sometime, right? I'm stuck in here another two days, but maybe Saturday I could take you…." Adam frowned and glanced down at the gauze bandages on his chest, stacked so thick they made a lump under the hospital gown. "Okay, I can't take you anywhere for a couple weeks. You could come over, though. For dinner? Or just coffee?"

Kris leaned up and kissed his nose. "I'd love to. But I already have plans for Saturday." He grinned and waggled his eyebrows, "It's Brad and Justin's two month anniversary, and I'm the uninvited guest."

Adam blinked and replayed the comment in his head twice, because obviously the Percocet was confusing him. It sounded like he'd said… " _What_?"

"Brad hired me to be his Emilio. He says I'm short, but my 'skills' more than make up for it."

"But…." There were multiple things wrong with this new development, and Adam had a hard time picking one to start with. "But it's a _con_. You're not a criminal…."

"Hey, a man's gotta earn a living," Kris shrugged, and then cupped Adam's cheek, espresso-brown eyes blinking down at him fondly. "What, you didn't think I was gonna make you two go straight, did you?"

Adam decided to stop worrying and smiled back, feeling dizzy from more than the drugs. "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em?" he asked.

"Something like that," Kris agreed, and kissed him again.

Mrs. Sarah Siddons was a stunning woman, but a real pain in Adam's ass. She'd crossed his path just before Christmas, the introduction made by a friend of a friend, and she'd been staying in Adam and Kris's bedroom ever since, refusing to be moved. It wasn't that she was undesirable—Adam had any number of clients who might love to take her home—but she had a bit of a reputation. No one knew where she'd been hiding for the last 26 years, and his legitimate clientele would never consider a painting of such dubious provenance.

Adam glared at the Gainsborough portrait in the mirror's reflection as he snapped the button covers onto the front of his black tuxedo shirt.

"What do you think?" Kris asked, stepping into the reflection with him. "Is tonight gonna be her lucky night?"

Adam looked up and took a moment to admire the picture they made, standing side by side. Kris looked confident and handsome with his slicked-back hair, his new tuxedo custom-tailored to fit his muscular frame. The classic black and white Paul Smith tux was a contrast to Adam's more modern black-on-black ensemble. Adam's satin shawl collar would pick up the pomade shine in his black hair, and gray eyeliner enhanced the blue of his eyes, making them glow. But what completed their ensembles was the familiar way their bodies angled toward each other, heads tipped slightly inward and arms brushing, even when they stood in companionable silence. They looked phenomenal together; they would be the envy of the party, especially among a crowd trained to appreciate beauty.

Kris elbowed him in the ribs good naturedly, and Adam remembered he'd asked a question.

He quirked a freshly waxed eyebrow and sniffed, "If Brad wants to earn 20 percent, it'd better be."

It had been an act of last resort, cutting Brad in, but none of Adam's black market collectors were interested in British Regency portraiture. He had reluctantly admitted that he needed Brad's wider network to make the sale. Mrs. Siddons had been a serious miscalculation, crowning a year of bad acquisitions, and he just wanted her out of the house once and for all.

"Oh, I'll sell her," Brad said, slouching in the doorway in a midnight blue tuxedo and black silk scarf. "I've got at least three contacts attending the Guggenheim fundraiser tonight. And what better time to strike than when the checkbooks are already out? While you two mingle with the above-board crowd, I'll be making deals in the cigar lounge."

"You're talking a good game, but I'll believe it when you show me the check," Adam said.

"Kris, do you hear this? This is what our friendship's come to."

Kris ignored the bait and said, "Hey, your tux isn't black," eyeing Brad's outfit and looking down at his own one-button mohair tuxedo.

"Because I'm a rebel!" Brad preened.

Adam rolled his eyes. " _Or_ he never learned what 'black tie' meant."

"Oh, the _tie's_ black," Brad said airily. He pulled his bow tie from a pocket, waved it around, and then shoved it away again. "Now, let's see how you turned out." He joined the two of them in the mirror, giving Kris a once over. Brad reached around and tweaked Kris's bow tie, tugged his jacket straight, and checked the shine on Kris's patent leather shoes. "Very nice," he said, and gave a final approving nod to the watch on Kris's wrist—a Vacheron Constantin Brad had given Kris for Christmas.

"Not too bad, yourself," Adam grinned, and smoothed down a stray bit of Brad's hair that was acting up in the back.

"Hey, don't touch the hair," Brad fussed, and batted his hand away. His eyes suddenly narrowed and he grabbed Kris's arm, lifting it up to inspect his cuff. "Honey, no! Who gave you these cuff links?"

Brad shot an accusatory look at Adam, who shook his head and leaned closer to see the plain silver squares on Kris's cuffs.

Kris shrugged. "My folks, when I graduated from the academy."

"They're…fine," Adam hedged, and gave Kris a supportive smile.

"I don't _think so_ ," Brad huffed, and dragged Kris off to his bedroom. "Come on, honey, we can do _so_ much better for you."

Kris shot Adam a bemused smile and let himself be towed. "Love you," he mouthed at Adam, and Adam mouthed back, "Love you."

Yeah, he mused as he fastened his own platinum and diamond cufflinks, it had been a year of bad acquisitions, except for one. He would take a lifetime of years like the last one just to have Kris with him like this. He raised his arms to slide on his jacket and felt a twinge that traveled from the center of his chest to his right shoulder. He'd maybe pushed the physical therapy a little too hard since New Year's; he would have to ease off for a few weeks.

Kris shouted from the other side of the condo, "Adam, he wants me to wear a shoulder holster!"

"Holsters are the new suspenders! You'll be so James Bond!"

Adam grinned, stuffed his bow tie in his pocket, and headed to Brad's room to rescue his boyfriend.

_ fin _


End file.
